


A Series Of Sentimental Interludes

by akajustmerry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Kidlock, Multi, POV Irene, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akajustmerry/pseuds/akajustmerry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BUT [SHERLOCK] HAS THE WOMAN IN HIS LIFE. IRENE ADLER IS ALWAYS HIS TOUCHSTONE, I GUESS. IF ANYTHING WHO WOULD CLAIM HIM, IT WOULD BE HER. MAYBE SHE’LL COME BACK, WE DON’T KNOW. — Amanda Abbington </p><p>While we may not know what became of the Woman, there are undoubtedly those who do. In light of this, my dear reader, what follows is a constantly accumulating collection of short fictions and one off tales featuring Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler and their sentimental interludes that haunt Sherlock's mind palace, and the cracks in the tale he never quite tells. Did Sherlock ever see the Woman again after he saved her life? Has Irene Adler really never returned to Baker St? And can the world's only consulting detective stay away from the dominatrix who stole his heart?</p><p>Note: Each chapter that follows is a self contained tale and has no connection any story that preceded or follows it, unless otherwise specified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Even Bruises Blush

“Evening, gentlemen. Lost are we?” Irene Adler politely inquired of the two ski masked clad gentlemen who had so unsubtly followed her down one of Amsterdam’s narrower allies.

“I’ll grab her.” The fat one muttered to the thinner one. Irene sighed as he lunged for her.  Stepping side-wards, she twisted herself around to elbow him in the lower back. He stumbled to the ground and Irene smirked as she watched him get up to face her, pulling her pepper spray from her bag.

The thug screeched as the pepper spray hit his eyes and crashed back to the ground. But not before one of his blind punches collided with Irene's jaw. She staggered backwards. Through her blurred vision she saw the thinner assailant flinch towards her.

A smile quirked at the edge of her bloody lips.

“Would you mind putting him out of his misery, Mr. Holmes?”

“Not at all.” came an all too familiar rumble that sent involuntary tingles up her spine.

“I thought you were occupied in Devon?” She asked, wiping blood from her lip.

“I was.” Sherlock walked over to the assailant, crouching down only long enough to provide him with a sucker punch to the head, quickly silencing his moaning.

“Anything interesting?” She asked. As he stood up, he removed his ski mask and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. Irene’s heart fluttered without warrant.

“Not really, just dealt with a man and his dog.” He muttered.

“What?”

“I infiltrated an extreme sect of the Russian Nationalists and not a single one of them noticed that I wasn’t even Russian.” He said, walking towards her.

“I’m not sure how they could miss those cheekbones.” She mused as he reached her. Chuckling, he held her gaze. They were standing so close that Irene could see the steam of his breath clinging to the cold night air between them.

“Are you alright?” His voice was oddly gentle.

“I’m fine, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock bit his lip before quickly turning away from her and gesturing towards the thug at their feet, “Didn’t I warn you about making friends?”

Irene frowned at him and folded her arms, “Didn’t you just let a Russian Nationalist attack me?”

“I was maintaining a cover. Something you are obviously struggling with.” He replied. Irene felt like slapping him.

“Is it entertaining, Mr Holmes?” Her voice was deadly.

“Sorry-?”

“Does it feed your ego? Waiting for the last moments of my life so you can swoop in and save it?” Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, “All so you can throw it back in my face and expect me to thank you for it?” Sherlock was gaping at her. Irene swallowed. “Oh, please, really? I would have rather you just swung that cutlass.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the alleyway. Heading down the next street, she weaved in and out of the bicyclists and unattended bikes. Walking, a little too vigorously, towards the canal. Reaching it, she turned towards the bridge. Her heart was pounding in her ears, the only other sound she could hear was her breath, catching sharply in her chest as she stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned against the railing between two pink bicycles adorned with flowers.

Lights twinkled on the surface of water as she looked out into the night and over the canal.  The low hanging tress casting spindly shadows from yellow street lamps, but the reflection of Amsterdam sprawled beneath her seemed distorted rather than beautiful this evening. She leaned against the rail, taking a deep breath of sweet Amsterdam air before running her hands through her long hair to the ends.

It had been almost 9 months since Mr Holmes had saved her life. Living life on the run wasn’t exactly easy. Especially when you no longer had the leverage you once did and you rarely got a full night’s sleep. Irene never used to dream, let alone have nightmares. But, then again, she’d never been almost beheaded as the result of becoming a tool for a criminal mastermind in a game so elaborately designed with the intention of destroying one man either. The man who condemned her, who saved her life, who she had developed feelings for, despite her best efforts. The man who now stood beside her on the bridge.

“Please don’t ask me to apologize for saving your life.” His voice sounded strained. He didn’t look at her, just out over the canal.

Irene sighed, “I don’t want you to.” She said, finally. They both stared out over the water for a while. Irene becoming more and more aware of the close proximity of their hands on the cool rail until Sherlock spoke.

“Moriarty uses people. He plays with them because he _does_ find it entertaining. I knew your phone’s passcode. I worked it out hours before we set foot inside my brother’s office.” Sherlock took a breath, “But I saw no harm in you using whatever information was on that phone for your ‘protection’. Even found it rather amusing watching you best my brother.” He sighed,

“But then, you mentioned Moriarty. Moriarty knew that once you gave me that message, I would be forced to stop you. I wouldn’t let him have any kind of control, even indirectly, of the information on that phone and the only way I could do that was, effectively, killing you.” Sherlock paused and his voice became bitter, “That was always his game. That was the best part.” He looked at her then before continuing,

“I figured out a way to save us both from his little game. I did it, not for my ego, Miss Adler and believe me,” he looked away from her, distractedly, “I find nothing entertaining about the idea of your death and I will not apologize for preventing it. Nor will I ever expect your thanks,” he looked back at her, “or ask for it, for that matter.”

He seemed finished. Irene’s heart was slamming against her ribs as she stared at him. Words rarely escaped her though on this occasion they all seemed to have disappeared.

“You know,” she managed, finally, holding back a smile and angling her body towards his, “Buying me dinner would’ve been a lot simpler, Mr. Holmes.” He laughed as he turned to face her.

“Probably.” He agreed. Irene watched as he raised his fingers, brushing them so lightly against the place where the Russian Nationalist had punched her, she would have thought she’d imagined it if it wasn’t for the tingling sensation beneath her skin where he touched it. “That will bruise.” He muttered, frowning, “Sorry-”

“You should be.” She retorted, playfully, “I used to get paid quite extravagantly to beat people, Mr Holmes. Now, I find myself receiving them for nothing.” Sherlock pressed his lips together, though a chuckle still escaped them with his fingers were still on her cheek. The action seemed almost absent minded. Irene wondered if it was. He seemed to be saying something else about bruising now and, though she was watching his lips, she barely heard a word he spoke before the space between them disappeared and she found herself kissing Sherlock Holmes for the second time in her life since he had saved it.

Amsterdam’s air was cold. But as she pressed her body against Sherlock Holmes’ she could’ve forgotten that it was. His body heat seemed to radiate all around her. As her pulse raced against her skin, she felt Sherlock’s hands’ rest on either side of her cheeks, tilting her head up and pulling her closer. In some distant part of her mind that wasn’t consumed by the oddly smoky taste of his lips, it occurred her that he could probably feel the heat of her blush beneath is fingers. She was still not accustomed to the amount of blushing she did when it came to Sherlock Holmes. It was rather annoying, but not entirely unpleasant.

Pain shot through her cheek.

“Ouch,” she murmured against his lips, “Careful, Mr Holmes. I was quite recently punched there.”  _Was she actually giggling? Jesus Christ…_

“Hmmm?” Sherlock seemed dazed. He lowered his hand from her face, tracing it down her arm until his fingers entwined with hers at her side. It seemed yet another absent action, though fire spread beneath her skin from every point he touched.

“Are you alright, Mr Holmes?”

“What?”

“You told me we weren’t to have any kind of contact unless circumstances were dire,” she squeezed his fingers in her hand at her side, still whispering into his lips “I wouldn’t describe what we’re doing as ‘zero contact’.” He let go of her hand and took a step back from her, then. As if he’d just realized something. Though he was still close enough that she could feel the residual heat from their kiss hanging in the air between them.

Suddenly flustered, he said, “In Devon I was,” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully “vulnerable. I just wanted to-” he broke off, looking away from her for a moment. She smiled at him.

“Fear makes us ever so sentimental, does it not, Mr. Holmes?” Irene grinned. It was his turn to blush.

“Yes, I suppose it does, Miss Adler.” He said, returning her smile. She stepped forward, closing the space between them, again.

“Dinner?” she asked, playfully. He grinned.

“Not tonight. I have to get back to London for the returning of the Reichenbach paintings in the morning.” He rolled his eyes, “Like they were missing, they were in the gallery archive. The only crime there was bureaucracy.” Irene raised an eyebrow at him as Sherlock smirked at her, placing his hands in his pockets as he turned to walk away,

“You know, saving my life doesn’t mean you still don’t owe me dinner.” She called after him. Sherlock stopped and turned, his crooked smile tugging at his lips as he closed the space between them and brushed his lips briefly against hers,

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

“Well then, until the next time, Mr Holmes.”

“Until the next time, Miss Adler.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I always felt the time gap between the Hounds Of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall was rather large and left quite a bit of room for sentimental things. Especially given what happened to Sherlock in HOB and how it wouldn't have happened long after he saved her. Amsterdam is such a gorgeous city. When I was there it felt very adlocky to me so yeah I wrote this. Also, I'm kinda fascinated with how nearly being killed and all that jazz effected Irene psychologically because I reckon she would have experienced some PTSD and Sherlock would've maybe kept an eye on that.
> 
> Originally published on my tumblr:  
> http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/94334800387/all-these-blushing-bruises-i-wouldnt-describe


	2. Death's Particulars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A petite Post-Reichenbach AU.

_**D** espite the residual pain of 48 hours of Serbian torture trickling through his veins and fogging his thoughts, a smile still managed to tease the corners of Sherlock’s lips as his eyes slowly opened and he looked up into the face of the Woman._

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.” She whispered, her red lips curling into a smile.

“Where am I?” Sherlock’s voice was low in his throat.

“Safe.” Irene was perched on the edge of the bed he was laying on. As she leaned over him to mop a cut on his head, he could feel her body heat against his bare chest. He seemed to be only wearing undergarments. His heart began to pound against his ribs, making his muscles ache even more, though the pain was not entirely unpleasant.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

She smirked at him, “Surely, a ‘thank you’ isn’t as painful as the situation I found you in?”

Sherlock winced as she deliberately pressed his forehead cut, “Surely” he echoed, dryly, his eyes never leaving hers. Despite all the things Sherlock knew, he would never understand why he enjoyed looking at Irene Adler. Why the sight of her caused chemical reactions in every nerve in his body, the like of which he had only ever experienced whilst being high.

Sherlock moved quickly. He grabbed the wrist of the hand Irene had to his forehead and sat bolt upright. His shoulder against hers. Irene stayed where she was perched beside him, maintaining her calm demeanor despite his grip on her wrist. Sherlock’s voice was a growl,

“I’ve spent the last two years of my life-” Sherlock started, but she cut across him,

“Don’t you mean your death?”

Sherlock blinked, “The last two years dismantling Moriarty’s network. Serbia was the last cell. The final frays of his web. If you interfered-”

You’ll what? Kill me?” She leaned into him, her face inches from his, “Forgive me, if I don’t believe you.” She whispered, the breath of her words dancing across his lips. Sherlock fought to maintain his stillness as his heart pounded in his ears, unsure of what his body would do if he let it move. Allowing his eyes slide over her face, down her neck towards her color bone before he stopped and frowned,

“Your shirt.”

“What about it?”

“It’s mine.” He raised an eyebrow at her as she got up off the bed. Sherlock feeling her weight lift off him and feeling slightly uncomfortable over the fact he hadn’t noticed in which particular part of their conversation she had begun straddling him.

“We both know it’s fun being dead Sherlock. But your fun is over now.” Her back was to him as she pulled her hair up into a loose knot. Though his shirt covered the top of her thighs, she seemed to be wearing nothing else. Sherlock felt a surprising amount of satisfaction while a certain kind of hunger nibbled at his insides he knew had nothing to do with actually being deprived of food, though he hadn't eaten in days. He tore his eyes away from her as she kept, apparently absently, fiddling with the hem of his shirt brushing the tops of her thighs.

“Is that so? By whose orders?” He asked, managing to drag his eyes away from her as he looked around and saw his suit jacket, trousers and other particulars folded at the end of the bed.

“Your brother’s, it seems.” She turned around to look at him. Sherlock had already placed his suit pants back on, though, of course, he was still without his shirt. Irene fiddled with the color coyly as he slowlywalked towards her, “He was coming for you - I just wanted to see if I could get there first. Apparently, It’s time for the return of the great Sherlock Holmes.” Her tone was mocking. But he was standing directly in front of her now so she was looking up at him.

Maybe it was the mild concussion he knew he had, skewing his thoughts. Or perhaps it was because this was the first remotely positive interaction he’d had with another human being since he’d been on the run. Or maybe it was the fact that the Woman had rarely completely left his thoughts since he’d saved her life and that the world thought them both dead. Or maybe, it was just that she had indeed beat Mycroft to him which would ultimately irritate Mycroft, as he hated field work.

But for once, Sherlock didn’t consider the reason, took her face in his hands and kissed her. The kiss was long and lingering and Sherlock felt it deepening, setting every single nerve in his body slowly alight as she leaned her body against his. His hand’s elegantly finding the buttons of his purple shirt. Undoing them one by one, her breathing grew more ragged as she continued to kiss him back. The shirt fell off her shoulders onto the floor and he felt her lips form a smile against his own.

It was then he pulled away from her, his hands holding her cheeks, smirking as he did.

“Well then,” Sherlock’s voice was purr, “I’m going to need my shirt back.” Her swollen pupils had turned her pale eyes black and she scowled at him, running a finger up his chest to his cheek and pulled away from him. Now wearing nothing without his shirt. Sherlock found himself smiling. Her body was no different to the last time he’d seen it, despite all she’d been through. She bent down, picked up the shirt and tossed it to him. He caught it and put it on as Irene stood watching him, a smug glint in her eye as she folded her arms.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his jacket on with a flourish. She smiled and reached her head up to press her lips against his ear.

”I’ll take that as a thank you, Mr Holmes.” She whispered, before giving his lips the lightest of pecks and heading towards the bathroom.

“I’ll send your love to London and my brother, shall I?” he called after her. His last vision of the Woman, her winking at him before she closed the bathroom door behind her.

Sherlock smiled to himself. His purple shirt still warm from the touch of her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to avoid writing Post-Reichenbach things in prompts, but I originally wrote this as a gift to a blogger I admire. A year and a half later, the person I wrote this for is now one of my dear friends so this tiny fic is a little precious to me because I wouldn't have such a wonderful friend without it. Also, let's be honest, who doesn't want to see more of Irene Adler wearing Sherlock's clothes like she bloody well owns them? I love the idea that clothes can hold memories and make us...sentimental :)
> 
> Originally published on my tumblr (feel free to chat to me there):  
> http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/78095601131/prompt-irene-walking-around-in-the-purple-shirt


	3. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could you do a prompt where Irene and Sherlock are at his flat and Sherlock's parents happen to be visiting the same day and they end up meeting Irene?"

**_Before Sherlock opened his eyes, he knew he wasn’t alone in his bed._ **

As his senses slowly joined him in consciousness, he felt how every part of him- legs, arms, even his chest - was pressed against the corresponding parts of the body that seemed to  fit perfectly against his own. It had to be a woman, no man would wear silk that barely covered them. But it was her smell, like London, and the rain that still couldn’t wash away the scent of her perfume that was as intimately familiar with Sherlock’s memory as if it had been only yesterday he had smelt it.

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly, inevitably and, though he’d never admit, satisfyingly, to rest upon Irene Adler. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr Holmes,” she whispered into his lips.

She  propped her head on her elbow so he was looking up at her, while her other hand gently stroked his bare chest. Her touch seemed to burn his skin. Sherlock fought to stay motionless, though the fire that seemed to spread through him from where her fingers had brushed his skin was putting up a fight that he felt he would loose.

“This is an interesting dream,” he said, softly. Realizing he was absently stroking her side, felling her the curve her hips beneath her silken night dress.

She chuckled, “Is it?” She leaned her head down towards him, Sherlock could see her pupils so large and hungry her large blue green eyes seemed black, “Dream about me often?” She asked. Sherlock smiled, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart,

“No.”

“Well then, sorry to disappoint you,” she smirked at him, her lips inches from his, adjusting herself so their legs were entwined and her chest was pressed against  his. He could feel her racing heart against his own.  "This isn’t a dream," she whispered.

“What?” he said, dazed, still absently stroking her back.

“You’re awake, Sherlock.” She said, smiling. Sherlock held her gaze for a moment before sitting slowly upright, Irene straddling his waist, “This isn’t a dream?” He asked, a frantic edge to his voice. Irene smirked as she ran a finger down his chest, 

“No.” She said, her voice low. Sherlock disentangled himself from Irene so fast, it could hardly have been called graceful. He leaped out of his bed and stood there, wide eyed, staring at her. Irene, apparently enjoying the effect this new information had on him, raised herself to stand before him. Sherlock’s eyes helplessly slid over the places where her lingerie fell into place and hugged her petite frame. He blinked, distractedly,

“Go- You need to leave right now.” His voice was urgent.

“Why?” She asked, tracing her finger down her neck as if in thought, though Sherlock tried to ignore it’s true destination.

“Because-” He bagan- But the sound of 221b’s door opening and Mrs Hudson’s voice cut him off. Sherlock turned to listen, grimacing, “too late,” he muttered.

“Sherlock! Your mum and dad are here!” Mrs Hudson called.

“Sherlock, you up?” it was his mother. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as he turned to find Irene was no longer standing in front of his bed. The next phrase Sherlock heard, he knew he would never forget.

“Oh! We didn’t know Sherlock had company,” his father sounded disbelieving, his mother echoed an equally disbelieving,“Female company!”  

Sherlock could feel Irene’s smirk though he couldn’t see her. Throwing on a shirt and dressing gown quicker than he’d ever done in his life. Sherlock walked in to find Irene shaking his father’s shocked hand,

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. and Mrs Holmes” Irene chirped, scowling at Shelock over her shoulder, “I was just -"

Sherlock cut across her,  "Leaving! You were leaving.” He appeared behind her, pushing her back towards his bedroom and away from his parents.

“Sherlock! Don’t be so rude!” his mother snapped, “Introduce us!”

Sherlock groaned. Irene was grinning, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Holmes. If I’d known you were coming I would’ve dressed.” She purred. Sherlock gave a hollow laugh,

“That’d be a first” He muttered. Irene attempted to stamp on his foot which he dodged. Sherlock’s mother looked alarmed, Sherlock realizing she wouldn’t understand the reference in his comment far too late. His father, to Sherlock’s surprise, looked impressed. Sherlock was sure his cheeks were burning the same color red as Irene’s lips.

“Introduce her to us, Sherlock!” his mother repeated, smiling a smile he didn’t like. Sherlock sighed,

“This is Irene Adler, she’s a dominatrix who drugged me, beat me, lied to me, betrayed me and, probably fell in love with me. I saved her life and helped her fake her death because, though she didn’t know it, she prevented my arch nemesis from killing my best friend and I with a luckily timed phonecall. I gave her instructions to stay away from me and London which she seems,” he looked down into Irene’s face, holding her gaze, “Incapable” she curled her lips into a smile, “of following.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her, nodding towards his parents who seemed to be catatonic.

“You could say she’s dead to me. Dead to a lot of people, dangerous people, which is why she should leave.” Irene smiled mischievously, before reaching up on tip toe and kissing him. A long lingering kiss that set every single one of Sherlock’s nerves on fire. He tried to remember that his parents were watching, but the taste of her lips threw any other thought to the wind.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when she pulled away. Once again grinning at the effect she’d rendered upon the room. 

“Well, this was all very lovely, but I suspect the Russian nationalists who were on my tail have given up looking for me in London. I figured no one would look for me here.” She pressed her body against Sherlock’s to whisper in his ear, “Till the next time, Mr. Holmes.” She gave a nod to Sherlock’s stunned parents as she turned, heading back to Sherlock’s bedroom.

After a few minutes, Sherlock heard the window of his bedroom opening, a thud and then silence. She was gone. The thought caused a twinge in Sherlock’s stomach he wasn’t expecting. He turned back to face his parents. They stood in stunned silence for a minute before Sherlock’s father grinned,

“Nice one, son!”

“Oh, hush you!” his mother nudged his father.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Not from what I see,” he giggled.

“She just likes to cause trouble.” Sherlock responded, “Please, don’t mention her to anyone - including me, that would be great.” He avoided their eyes.

“But who is she, darling? Really, who is she?” His mother asked. Sherlock smiled to himself, looking wistfully in the direction of his bedroom.

“The Woman” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you're allowed to have favorites when it comes to your own work, but god I loved writing this.  
> By the way, don't be afraid to leave me prompts on tumblr. I only have one rule: No parentlock :)
> 
> Originally published:  
> http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/76616965455/could-you-do-a-prompt-where-irene-and-sherlock-are


	4. Family Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family meetings were rigorously horrendous occasions under normal circumstances. However, when Sherlock walked into his brother’s inner city office and was greeted with the sight of his parents drinking tea with the Woman, he knew this family meeting would be particularly abhorrent.

**_Family meetings were rigorously horrendous occasions under normal circumstances. However, when Sherlock walked into his brother’s inner city office and was greeted with the sight of his parents drinking tea with the Woman, he knew this family meeting would be particularly abhorrent._ **

It took every ounce of his will power not to shout, but he knew it wasn’t rage that was making his heart slam against his ribs as his eyes eventually met hers across the room. Sherlock, watching her pull a tea cup away from her red lips, when his view of her was blocked by Mycroft,

“You’ve got some explaining to do, brother dear.” Sherlock fought the strong urge to slap the smirk off his brother’s face as Mycroft indicated the empty seat at the tea table next to the Woman, opposite his stunned parents. Sherlock took it, amazed that his heart managed to beat faster at being this close in proximity to her after three years without so much as a text between them. Maybe it was this that made him address her first, the tension in the room was a palpable pulse,

“Death treating you well, I see, Miss Adler,” his eyes lingered on her lips as they curled into a smile.

“And you, Mr Holmes. Though, obviously it’s not for everyone." 

"Obviously,” he agreed, holding her gaze as he took a sip of tea. Her hair was shorter than when he’d last seen her, the ends of it tickling the bare skin of her exposed shoulders, owing to the strapless tight black dress she was wearing that was tight in all the right ways. Sherlock tore his eyes away from her with a momentous effort to look at his brother. “Yes, I did intend death to be Miss Adler’s only known occupation.” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

“Really? Was that your only intention for Miss Adler, Sherlock?” His brother sneered.

“She saved my life from Moriarty. I saved hers to return the favor. Repaying a debt, Mycroft, I’m sure even you can wrap your mind around it.” Sherlock took another sip, avoiding his gaze.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Mycroft sighed, “I mean really, you’re still ever so obvious, brother dear. A dominatrix gets the better of you and you rush to be the hero.” Sherlock’s mother spat out her tea. Sherlock turned, suddenly. He had quite forgotten his parents were there.

“She’s a… _what?”_

"A dominatrix, mother.” Mycroft said proudly. His mother rounded on him. Sherlock caught a glimpse of Irene’s smirk, she was clearly enjoying Sherlock’s torment.

“Sherlock Holmes, when I let you go gallivanting after criminals. I did not want you getting involved with -” she gestured wildly in Irene’s direction, struggling for words, “criminals and sex workers!”

“That is a slightly unrealistic standard, mother. When one deals with criminals there tend to be,” he paused, “Criminals- and she isn’t a dominatrix.” Sherlock eyed down his brother for a moment, “She was.”

“But old habits die hard” Irene muttered in his ear. Sherlock fought the urge not to jump as he felt her hand on his thigh beneath the table. He glanced sideways at her, her eyes alight, her lips slightly parted. Sherlock fought to keep his train of thought.

“How could you have a girlfriend and not tell us? Both of you!” Sherlock’s father asked, looking between his two sons. Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands, willing the floor to swallow him whole.

“She isn’t - ” He spluttered between his parents interrogation and he stood up, suddenly. Silencing his parent’s shouting.

“Miss Adler was my adversary. I was tasked with retrieving certain items from her possession and I did that. She is not a criminal, she is no longer a dominatrix and yes, Mycroft, she isn’t dead. As well as not being dead, she also isn’t my girlfriend,” Sherlock turned his head to look down at her, their eyes instantly locked onto one another’s.

“She is the Woman. She eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex and to refer to her as a criminal or a prostitute or,” he paused, and he took a deep breath, “my girlfriend, is a distasteful understatement.” Sherlock saw something flash behind Irene’s eyes.

 His words had left the room in a silence that seemed to destroy any other form ofnoise, only his racing heart beat echoed in his ears as everyone looked at him, astounded. 

“Thank you, dear. Very poetic,” Sherlock’s attention drew back to the Woman as she slowlyrose out of her chair until she stood with her body angled towards him. Sherlock, suddenly aware that his hands were sweating as he looked down into her face, “You do have a habit of flattering me, Mr. Holmes,” her voice was low in her throat.

“You’re welcome-” Sherlock was surprised at how husky his voice sounded before Irene swallowed it with her lips. Sherlock’s only coherent thought before his mind became consumed with the taste of her was that this would not do any wonders for the ‘she isn’t my girlfriend’ argument. It might have been decades when  Irene stepped away from him, smirking at a dazed Sherlock and his opened mouthed family members as she headed for the door.

“Well, I hate to be rude but I must be off.” She grabbed her coat off the back of her chair, “Lovely to meet you,” her face was a scowl as she gave a nod to Sherlock’s stunned parents,  "Thank you for the tea, Mr. Holmes" Mycroft seemed to ignore her as she then turned at the door "And a pleasure as always, Sherlock.“ She winked at him and she was gone. Sherlock watched the space in the empty door frame where she had disappeared for a moment before he heard Mycroft’s voice break the silence.

"She’ll be in the lobby, grab her and detain her immediately” the words echoed in Sherlock’s mind for what felt like years before he grabbed a cheese knife and threw it across the table. It soared through the air and hit Mycroft’s phone with a gasp from the table. Mycroft jumped as both the knife and his phone bounced off one another. Before they’d even hit the ground Sherlock had leaped across the table, catching the phone in one hand and wrapping the other around his brother’s color. Sherlock did the best imitation of his brother’s voice he could muster with his voice shaking,

“No, scratch that. Let her go. She’s of no use to us, not anymore. The phone was lost and all the information from it was retrieved. Let her walk.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Came the voice on the other end.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. The line went dead and Sherlock broke the phone between his fingers. Suddenly, he could hear his mother shouting and wondered if she had been doing that the whole time. Sherlock’s voice was a growl as he stood over his brother.

“If I get a word - _and I will get word_ \- if any harm befalls Irene Adler or she is captured because someone let slip she is alive. I promise you, brother mine, I shall terminate the information leak at its source, is that understood?” Mycroft’s voice was snide, 

“Really, brother dear? Threatening me, breaking the law, keeping secrets from me, infiltrating terrorist cells, withholding evidence? All of this, for the sake of one dominatrix?”

“No, not a dominatrix,” Sherlock let go of Mycroft’s color and straightened up, looked at his wide eyed parents and began to head towards the door. When he reached it, he turned back to look at his family who were watching him in awed silence.

 ”The Woman,” he finished, and, flicking up his shirt color, Sherlock left the room in pursuit of Irene Adler. Leaving Mycroft to deal with the countless questions, he knew his parents would be asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno if anyone has noticed buuttttt protective Sherlock is my favorite Sherlock xo
> 
> Originally published:  
> http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/78838603696/please-an-adlock-prompt-where-mycroft-finds-out
> 
> feel free to send me prompts on tumblr to see them in this collection :)


	5. A Different Kind Of Buzzing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kidlock is the only sherlock au I truly love and will write anytime any day.

"Leave her alone, Jim.”

Sherlock surprised even himself as he stepped between Jim Moriarty and the new girl in class that Sherlock had just seen him shove into a tree. Jim chuckled,

“Why?”

“Because,” Sherlock replied sheepishly, glancing over his shoulder at the girl behind him, “You can’t just make people do horrible things because it’s fun and, if you push her again, you’ll hurt my bees.”

“He wouldn’t push me, again,” growled the girl behind Sherlock. For some reason, Sherlock could feel his cheeks burning. Jim started laughing looking between Sherlock and the girl and that smile of his Sherlock hated the most, curled his lips.

“I’ll hurt more than your bees one day, Sherlock Holmes.” Jim Moriarty taunted as he turned away to head back towards the school building. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock waited until he was a good 20 feet away before he turned to tend to his disturbed bees. A squeak of surprise escaped his lips when he found the girl standing directly in front of him.

“You didn’t need to do that. I was fine.” She insisted. Sherlock blinked at her. Her arms were folded and her freckled nose was scrunched up into a frown. It made Sherlock want to smile, but he wasn’t quite sure why,

“I know.” He took a step back from her. Accidently brushing her shoulder against his as he moved past her to walk around the tree, “I just didn’t want you and Jim to upset my bees.” He said, looking up towards the branches.

“What bees?” The girl was still frowning. Sherlock looked at her and beckoned her over to him. After a moment, she cautiously moved to join him at his side. With one finger to his lips, Sherlock pointed upwards with his other hand to the three hives, teaming and humming in the branches above their heads. Sherlock watched her eyes widen as she titled her head sidewards. _He liked looking at her_ , he thought to himself. Feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

“Bees aren’t allowed at schools. That’s why they’re yours, aren’t they?” She said, still looking up at the bees. Sherlock nodded. They both stared up at the bees for the next few minutes. Listening to them buzz. After a while, though, Sherlock found himself just staring at the girl and different kind of buzzing began to fill his ears.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.” She whispered. Sherlock hadn’t noticed that she had been looking at him too.

“And you’re Irene Adler.” He responded. Irene Adler grinned as if she was proud of the sound of her name,

“Other kids say you’re really clever.” She nudged his shoulder so lightly Sherlock wondered if it was an accident, before he looked away from her and down at his feet,

“My brother, Mycroft, is smarter. So is Jim, really. I’m not as smart as them. At least, that’s what they say.” He mumbled.

“I don’t think so.” She mused, as if she was telling him a fact. Sherlock looked up at her, “And I’m quite clever.” She finished, smiling at him as if that settled the matter. Sherlock held her gaze for a moment and eventually, couldn’t help but return her smile until he felt his heartbeat in his fingertips.

“Thank you,” she said and Sherlock observed the freckles on her cheeks were turning pink, “for before.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock felt like he wanted to run away and hide and never leave all at the same time. But Irene Adler turned then to walk away from him, then. She had gotten a few feet before Sherlock called out,

“Hey!” He swallowed, “Miss Adler?” His voice sounded as small as he felt. She turned to look at him, puzzled by the address, “Please don’t tell anyone else about my bees.” Sherlock asked. Irene Adler walked back towards him, brushing her dark brown tangles from her freckly face that made him want to stare at her even though he had always been told it was rude to do so. When she reached him she planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock Holmes,” she giggled, “your bees are safe with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story: One time, I was super stressed and forgot to write a submission for my creative writing class and I realized on the morning it was due I hadn't written anything. But the submission had to center around kids, so I grabbed this story off my tumblr, went through and changed Sherlock and Irene's names to Milo and Meena and submitted it. Dodged a bullet, right? WRONG! I missed a whole paragraph where Irene was still called Irene and my professor emailed me and asked me if this was story about kids with multiple personality disorders falling in love. Panicking, I didn't want to tell him the truth that it was a thinly veiled Sherlock fic, plus creative writing professors love it when you get super fake deep so I just said, "actually it's about kids with bipolar AND multiple personalities and how they can find stability in one another and nature. Hence, the bees." My professor must've been impressed because he gave me full marks so you could argue this is the only fic I've ever written that is officially not bad.  
> P.S. Sherlock Holmes' love for bees is so important and so left out of so many adaptations. (The bees here are a metaphor for something, can you guess what?)
> 
> Originally published on my tumblr: letzplaymurder.tumblr.com


	6. A Dance Among Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock practicing his wedding dance with Irene in the Mind Palace.

“You really call that dancing, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock had been Intending his composition for John and Mary, and the flawless waltz he was creating to accompany it, to be his mind’s only focus. But after 3 hours his mind had begun to wonder and, as he grew further and further frustrated with its ending, he knew an appearance from the Woman was inevitable. Though that didn’t prevent his heart slamming against his ribs when heard her voice echo in his ears. 

“If you don’t mind, I am trying to concentrate,” he said, trying his hardest not to look at her.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she drawled.

“Good, then leave,” she chuckled at him.

“And go where, exactly? It’s your ‘mind palace’, after all,” she was suddenly in front of him, “I’ll always be up here,” she raised a finger to stroke his cheek, tracing his jawline down his neck until her hand rested above his heart.

“Right here,” he echoed, his voice as low as hers.  From every point her fingers touched Sherlock felt a pulse spread through him, an electrical charge that couldn’t quite compare to any high he had experienced. He let out his breath slowly, holding her gaze for what felt like an eternity before one of them spoke,

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a dance meant for two, Sherlock.”

“A keen observation.”

“Practice with me and you’ll figure out the end,” he blinked, looking at her as he considered the offer. She smirked at him, “Or have you never danced with a woman before?”

“No. But I’m not dancing with a woman,” she raised an eyebrow at him as he leaned toward her, his voice was a low rumble, “I’m dancing with  _the_  Woman.” She smiled as his hands elegantly found their marks. His right hand held her left while his left hand wrapped around her waist, pressing her chest against his. He could feel the rhythm of her heart racing, he was holding her so close. Though, however he tried to ignore it, it only matched the speed of his own. As if it  wasn’t enough for them to be this close, as if his heart wanted to leap out and meet hers somehow.

He lead her gracefully as they waltzed around the empty space in his mind. The sound of his violin seemed to consume them, as if it flowed through them into each other. He was surprised at her own grace as a dance partner. The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Didn’t think I could dance, Sherlock?”  She asked as he twirled her towards him into his arms, her back leaned into him so, for a moment, he spoke into the crook of her neck,

‘You’ve always surprised me, Miss Adler,” he twirled her out away from him before pulling her close again, she raised her head, pressing herself to him as she whispered into his lips,

“Impressed you, you mean?” 

He smiled at her, “Down girl”

“Really? I thought you were focusing on-”

“No, I mean it,” she only looked confused for a moment before he leaned her body back gently and dipped her. His body leaned over hears as she tossed her head back, causing her hair to fall out of it’s bun. He mirrored her smile as he brought them both back upright. No part of his body not touching hers as he held them both there for a moment. 

Sherlock had never really understood beauty and how people found it in others. But he knew Irene Adler would always be beautiful to him.

“The music stopped, Sherlock,” she said.

“What?” he said, dazed.

_“Your music stopped, Sherlock.”_

Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke through Sherlock’s thoughts like shattering glass. He blinked. He was standing in his living room at Baker St. His hands still held their stance though they held nothing but thin air. He lowered them slowly, his heart still hammering in his chest.

“Got the dance all worked out, then?”

“Yes,” his voice sounded more bitter than he expected. He was even surprised at the twinge of anger he felt that they were interrupted. 

 _But she was never here._ Sherlock shook the thought away, ignoring the odd ache in his stomach.

“Shame you don’t have anyone to dance with” Mrs Hudson said absently. “Although,” she laughed, “God help the girl you let dance with you. She’d have to be half as mad as you, if not madder!”

“No.” Sherlock stood staring out of Baker Street’s windows, “she just has to be impressive.”  he closed his eyes as Mrs Hudson’s footsteps died away. Her face still imprinted on the back of his eyelids.

“Now,” the Woman's voice whispered in his ear, sending little shivers through his body, “where were we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always read whatever I write to my mum. When I read this to her and she was so wrapped with it she insisted I email it to her and a year and a half later, I still get random emails from women she works with, saying they thought this short little thing my mum sent them because they needed a cheer up is one of the most romantic/beautiful things they've ever read and it made them smile. Most of them tell me they've never even watched Sherlock, so even though I didn't really intend this fic to be anything extraordinary special, I'm rather proud that I was able to (apparently) convey a feeling in it so well that it transcended both context and character. Me? I've always written Sherlock and Irene how I believe they are and would be. Nothing more or less xo
> 
> Originally published on my tumblr: http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/75132877185/sherlock-practicing-his-wedding-dance-with-irene


	7. Firsts & Lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guest arrives at John and Mary's wedding that Sherlock had not expected, only daydreamed. A tiny Sign Of Three au for your liking.

“What’s the matter, Mr Holmes? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Sherlock suppressed a gasp as, for the first time in three years, he felt her breath in his ear. Heart pounding in his chest, he stumbled to find words, slowly turning his head towards the sound of her voice. It wasn’t long before his eyes found her face, a smug smile curling the corners of her red lips that were exactly how Sherlock remembered them.

“You - ? I - You can’t be here.” Spluttering, he closed his eyes briefly, knowing she was smirking.

“You didn’t think I’d miss the best man’s speech, did you?” She teased.

“Take my arm.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth at her, “We are at a wedding reception in a room full of people who believe you are dead. I would prefer to keep it that way as I’m sure you would too.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Irene sighed as she entwined her arm around his, “you and I both know being dead isn’t all that fun.” Sherlock lead them out of the room. inclining his body towards hers slightly in an effort to ensure no one would see her.

Heat seemed to radiate from the place where their arms intertwined. Sherlock tried to ignore the tingle in every nerve in his body as if he could feel her seeping into his skin. He pulled her into a side room, shutting the door behind them he turned to face her and was shocked to find she was standing directly in front of him.

“You look handsome in that suit, Mr Holmes,” she ran a finger down his chest, never taking her big brown eyes away from his. Sherlock held her gaze, keeping his voice low,

“Miss Adler, if you have risked being caught to flatter me, I must admit I’m a little -”

“Aroused?” She drawled. Sherlock chuckled at her,

“Disappointed,” he replied. Her face was so close to his he was breathing the words accross her lips, “My instructions for you were quite simple - stay out of the UK and do not contact me. Evidently,” his eyes slid lazily up and down her body, “that was too difficult for you to comprehend.”

“Please,” she said, her lips were so close to his now that Sherlock could here his heart pounding in his ears, “just admit your impressed.”

“No.”

“And you’re pleased to see me.”

A smile twitched on Sherlock’s lips. “Never.” The word was barely off his lips before she consumed it with hers. She leaned into him, parting his lips expertly with her own. She was kissing him how he’d wanted her to. How he’d imagined she would in the deepest darkest parts of his mind palace.

And he was kissing her back.

If Sherlock had intended to resist, any notion of it evaporated as he raised both his hands to hold each side of her face to his. He kissed her back with every emotion he had ever suppressed for her; the desire he’d felt when he’d met her. The despair he felt when he thought he’d lost her. The betrayal he felt in finding she’d lied to him. The satisfaction that he’d beaten her and, of course, the joy he felt in being the only one knowing that she lived.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long they held this first and last kiss It could’ve been hours by the time they slowly pulled away from one another. Sherlock was slightly breathless, “You’re leaving, aren’t you? The Northern Hemisphere, I mean”

Irene nodded, stroking his face. “Someone told me I had to keep moving, if I wanted to keep being dead. I’ve always wondered,” her fingers traced down his neck to play with his tie, “Why did you save me?” Sherlock chuckled. Irene could feel the vibrations in his chest against hers before,

“Obvious,” he said. She smiled knowingly at him and Sherlock’s hands slid down to her waist to gently push her away. From an inside pocket, he produced her old camera phone.

“You told me once that this phone was your life. Befitting that I held onto it, don’t you think? Me, being the only person knowing you are alive because I saved you. Your life,” he threw the phone up and caught it, “was mine, in a way,” he leaned towards her, reaching out to hold her hand, he pressed the phone gently into her palm, closing her fingers over the phone with his own.

“This was your life, Irene Adler and it destroyed you. I saved you because I wanted to give you a new one.” Irene seemed, for a fraction of a second, to be at a loss for words then she smirked at him,

“Sherlock, dear, most people just say ‘call me’”

He chuckled at her, “I’m not most people.”

“I know.” She smiled and they held each others gaze for a long time. Then, Irene broke the silence, “Goodnight, Mr Sherlock Holmes” she said, a finality in her voice that gave Sherlock’s heart a aching twinge to it's beats. But Sherlock smiled and raised the hand of hers he was holding to his lips and kissed it,

“Goodbye, Miss Adler” he stepped aside as she opened the door and left. Sherlock smiled to himself looked away, not wanting his last memory of the Woman to be her walking away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this almost two years ago. I mean, it couldn't happen, her turning up at the wedding and all, it would be a highly silly of her, but I couldn't get it out of my head that he was thinking about her that day and what if she was thinking about him too so I wrote this.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to send me a prompt on tumblr: letzplaymurder.tumblr.com
> 
> Love, Merry xo


	8. Bath Times At Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives at 221b to find the Woman taking a bath in his home. This is set pre- His Last Vow

_It took some pushing and shoving, but the moment Sherlock caught the scent of an all too familiar perfume lingering in on the stairs that lead up 221b, he knew he had to get rid of John._

_John protested that he’d left his phone inside, but Sherlock had already slammed the door shut and was allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards into the slightest of smiles as the unmistakable sound of the Woman humming floated towards him from Baker Street’s bathroom._

Irene Adler didn’t even look up from the newspaper she was reading when Sherlock entered Baker Street’s bathroom, laying eyes on her for the first time in over a year. The Newspaper was resting on her bare legs that were hanging lazily over the edge of the small tub. Despite their length though, Sherlock noticed, they did not allow her toes touch the ground. Sherlock felt himself smile, but he wasn’t exactly sure why.

He blinked. Shutting his eyes then opening them over and over again before-

“Checking to see if I’m real, Mr Holmes?” Irene looked up from her paper and he watched her thin lips curl into a smile, “Or would you like me to pinch you?”

“I wasn’t checking-” Sherlock spluttered, a little _too_ indignantly.

“Do you lie to me as poorly in your imagination?” She returned to her paper without missing a beat, smirking.

“Are you really in a position to lecture me about lying, Miss Adler?” He retorted.

“Are  _you_ , Mr Holmes?” She closed the paper and looked up at him, a glint in her eye, “Was that Dr Watson?” She chimed. Sherlock said nothing and Irene grinned at his silence.

“Why are you here?” He asked, after a moment.

Irene rolled her eyes at him, “Can’t I just come and visit?”

“No.” There was a hint of something like bitterness in his voice that seemed to surprise both of them. Irene swung her legs back over the edge of the bathtub and stood up. All the while, Sherlock’s eyes could not help but follow the water droplets as they slid down her various curves as she stepped out of the tub.

The size of the bathroom meant there was barely inches between them. Sherlock could feel the heat of the bath water radiating from her as dripped down her body onto the tiles. Suddenly, he was aware of a drumming in his ears.

“Too bad.” Her voice was low as they held each other’s gaze. Sherlock realizing as he did that the thumping in his ears was the sound of his heart as it slammed against the wall of his chest. His heart tended to do this around Irene Adler. As if it was desperate to break out of his chest and meet hers, somehow.

With an effort that was more difficult then he would’ve liked, Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking the reverie that was almost like a heat between them and reached around her for his red dressing gown hanging on the wall behind the door.

She turned around slowly and Sherlock let the dressing gown fall onto her shoulders, his fingers brushing her bare skin as he did. He did his best to ignore the tingling feeling spreading through his body from where his fingertips met her skin. Meanwhile Irene unpinned her hair before turning back around to face him.

Sherlock would never admit to the satisfaction he felt when he saw Irene Adler wearing his clothing so he glanced away from her. Frustrated as he always was, that Irene Adler’s appearance fascinated him in a way that had nothing to do with deductive reasoning.

Irene seemed to be enjoying his discomfort, winking at him before departing the bathroom. Sherlock followed her. After a moment he realized they were going into his bedroom. Frowning, he watched Irene perch herself on the edge of his bed when they reached it, apparently lost in thought until,

“Why are you going after Magnussen?” She asked, finally. Sherlock blinked at her. This was not what he had been expecting. He was still standing in the doorway with his hands clasped firmly behind his back,

“Why are you asking?” He responded. Irene shrugged, looking away from him for a moment. Sherlock frowned at her, “Do you know him-? No. Don’t tell me you ‘know what he likes?’”

She scowled at him, “Maybe I do. Maybe I know that there is no way you’ll beat him. Magnessun doesn’t allow win loose scenarios where the other party comes out on top.”

Sherlock gave her a hollow laugh, “Is this why you’re here? To tell me to be careful? I must say you’re setting a poor example, Miss Adler.”

“He’s not like Jim. He doesn’t want to kill you. He just wants to have you in the palm of his hand.”

“Right, because if I died, you’d have to go bathe somewhere else.” Sherlock snapped.  He didn’t need to see the Woman’s smug facade falter to know that he’d done it. Irene stood up, her smirk was back though Sherlock could tell it was artificial as she mused,

“Your life lectures are becoming far too dull for my taste, Mr Holmes. Evidently, I’ve outstayed my welcome.” She began walking towards the door. When she reached it, she turned to face him, “Good luck with Magnessun. You’ll need it.” She smirked at him again before turning away and heading down the hall. Leaving Sherlock standing alone in his bedroom with his heart still hammering in his chest. Each thud seemed to be timed with Miss Adler’s footfall as she walked away. Sherlock groaned, rubbing his face with hands before-

“No.” He watched the Woman stop, “Don’t.”

She turned in the wall to face him, eyebrow raised expectantly as she folded her arms. “You saved me, remember?” 

“I know. It’s just-” He sighed “Magnussen’s watching the flat. He has been for weeks. He’s looking for a pressure point. A way to _get me in the palm of his hand_ and you-” he stopped, running a distracted hand through his curls. But Irene had slowly began walking back towards him,

“What about me, Mr Holmes?” She was standing directly in front of him now. Sherlock backed away from her until he found himself sitting on his bed, his face in his hands. But he pulled them away to look up at her as she stood over him.

“You should time your bathing needs better.” He said rather lamely as he stared pointedly at the floor. Sherlock heard Irene chuckle at the same time he felt her weight fall onto his body.

The chemical reactions occurring beneath his skin as the Woman expertly lowered herself onto his thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist and lazily draped her arms around his neck, made Sherlock suck in his breath. He kept his hands firmly by his sides as he looked up at her now, unable to look anywhere else,

“I don’t need your protection, Mr, Holmes.” She whispered down onto his lips. His face felt like it was burning along with the rest of his body which Miss Adler seemed to have ensured no part of hers wasn’t touching. Heart hammering, Sherlock wondered if she could feel it against her chest. The only thing between them was his suit and the dressing gown, after all.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want you safe.” He managed before she pressed her lips against his and closed any remaining space between them.

Some part of Sherlock knew he should push her away. Knew this would do nothing to convince Magnessun, or himself for that matter, that his pressure point was opium. But as he relaxed into the taste of her lips, allowing his hands to travel up her waist to her neck, until they rested on her face, pulling her somehow closer, he knew kissing Irene Adler was far more dangerous an infinitely more satisfying sensation then opium would ever be. Besides, there was always the chance they would mistake Irene for Janine though Sherlock assuredly would not.

“Sherlock! You in?” John’s voice tore Sherlock’s face away from Irene so suddenly it was as if he’d heard a gunshot. Despite her dilated pupils, Irene’s eyes were wide as she stared at Sherlock. Panic flooded through him and something else? Annoyance? As he disentangled their bodies and stood up. Irene held a hand up to her mouth she seemed to be stifling laughter as Sherlock headed out to face his best friend, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

“John!” he said, cheerfully, but Sherlock wanted to punch him.

“Oh- hey, Sherlock - I was just picking up my- whoah! What happened to you?”

Sherlock frowned at the look of concern John was giving him before he looked down and realized his shirt was open and not all the buttons were present.  _So, that’s what she was laughing at,_ he thought.

“I was getting undressed.” Sherlock said, simply.

John raised an eyebrow, “Pretty aggressively, it seems.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock fought to keep his face straight, “I wanted to take a bath.” He paused before adding, “Very urgently.”

John narrowed his eyes, “Uh huh, you just seem-”

“What?”

“Flustered.”

“I’m not.”

John was still eyeing him down as he lowered his voice whisper, “Is there someone here, Sherlock? A woman - or-?”

Sherlock sniggered, probably too dramatically, “A woman? Don’t be ridiculous, John! I just really,” he tried not to grit his teeth, “Really want to have a bath. So, if you don’t mind, I like privacy when I,” he paused, “Bathe and you have a pregnant wife to tend to. So off you pop!” He walked around John to get the door. John walked slowly through it, not taking his eyes off his fidgety best friend,

‘Sherlock, are you-?”

“Oh, for god sake-!”

“Alright! I’ll leave so the great Sherlock Holmes can have bathtime, Jesus Christ!” John had barely turned away before Sherlock had slammed the door and returned to his bedroom to find Irene Adler sprawled on his bed, a giggling mess in his scarlet dressing gown,

“You really are a terrible liar,” she teased.

“I didn’t lie,” Sherlock stated, “He asked if there was a woman in here and I said no.”

“Oh, really? So, what does that make me, Mr. Holmes?”

His lips curled into a smile.

“The Woman.” He said. He liked the way she scrunched her nose, slightly. As if trying to stop herself from smiling. Though, she ultimately failed.

“Well then, shall we resume ‘bathtime’ Mr. Holmes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This was originally a prompt published on my tumblr (letzplaymurder) and it is one of my favorite ones I've ever written. I wrote it when I was too hot to sleep and I was obsessing over the idea that Irene had been hanging around in His Last Vow so it's not unlikely she didn't pay him a visit :)


	9. What You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene pays Sherlock a visit while he is hospitalized during the events of His Last Vow.

“Dear me, Sherlock what have you been up to?”

Even through the copious amount of morphine pulsing through his veins, dulling his mind and his senses, Sherlock’s pulse still managed to quicken as he heard the Woman’s voice echo in his ears.

“Aren’t you meant to be dead?” He drawled, opening his eyes to see her face leaning over his bed. She chuckled,

“Aren’t you?”

“Didn’t you get the memo? Not dead now. In fact, I’m feeling rather alive,” he adjusted his hospital bed upright, trying and failing not to wince from the pain of his wound as he did.

“Clearly,” she raised an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock saw her fingers twitch towards him when he winced.

 ”I didn’t save your life and help you fake your death so you could come and pay me overdressed hospital visits.”

“Like it do you?” she gestured down at the tight blood red dress that finished just above her knee beneath her leather jacket. It left her arms bare and Sherlock couldn’t help noticing that it was tight in all the right places, accentuating her small, delicate frame.

“No,” He said. She smiled smugly at him,

“Didn’t think you would. Speaking of what you like, however,” she drew out a tabloid plastered with Janine’s face, “you like making girls wear the funny hat?” She sneered at him. He sighed, 

“Apparently, yes”

“And handcuffs too?”

“All at once. Let me guess. I probably like doing it in morgues too?” He asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“She says your previous crime scenes here.” Irene was holding back a laugh as she perched herself on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. He could smell her perfume. Feel the heat coming off her. She was sitting so close to him he had an odd urge to reach out and stroke her back but shook the rediculous thought aside. They held each others gaze for a few moments.

Irene sighed, “What do you like, Mr Holmes?” She reached out her fingers, lightly stroking his bare chest. Sherlock, doing his up most not to show that it sent shivers down his spine.

“I,” he said, tracing his own fingers slowly down her arm until he met her fingers resting over his chest, “would like you,” he felt Irene lean forward towards him until their faces were so close he could feel her breath on his lips and he wondered if Irene noticed the machines beep rhythm increasing with his own heart, “to leave. I didn’t keep you alive so you could risk being caught each time I get a bullet hole”.

“You’ll miss me, Sherlock.” She whispered, smugly.

“Unfortunately,” he said, gently taking the hand she had rested on his chest and bringing it to his lips, “ I know.” He kissed her hand. She leaned over him once more and brushed her lips against his.

“Goodnight, Mr Sherlock Holmes” he looked over and saw her hand drawing away from his morphine monitor which she had turned up to full. The effect was almost instant, the last thing he saw, the Woman’s face fading away as he fell asleep. When Sherlock woke, he found a note scrawled in red and signed with three kisses resting on his chest that read,

_You still owe me dinner xxx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I wrote this years ago, before it was even confirmed that Irene left Sherlock that rose so imagine my pleasant surprise that something I wrote was kinda sorta canon :) originally published here on my tumblr: http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/73404846628/adlock-fic-prompt-irene-visits-sherlock-at-the


	10. A Scandal At Appledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler is one of Sherlock Holmes’ pressure points. So, how would the scene in His Last Vow have played out if pressure had been applied to it? This is an alternative scene at Appledore featuring the Woman.

“You’ve worked very hard, Mr. Holmes. I applaud you. But despite all the effort you’re still so tediously obvious.” Magnussen’s sighing drawl was like cold breath on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Obvious?” Sherlock kept his voice casual, though he longed to slap the smirk off Magnussen’s thin face.

“Yes, well,” Magnussen spread his arms out on the lounge and pressed a button. A screen appeared behind Sherlock and John, “Opium and John Watson are two pressure points of yours for sure, Mr. Holmes. But I find the most useful pressure points, the most effective, are the ones that people try to hide.” Magnussen sneered as the screen flickered to life and Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Irene Adler’s execution in Karachi played before their eyes in shaky, pixilated vision. But the picture quality wasn’t poor enough to hide her less than subtle escape from her death and, to Sherlock’s horror, the clear identity of her savior.

Magnussen paused the video, perfectly framing the image of Sherlock half carrying Irene Adler away from the chaos he’d caused to save her. He felt his insides twist slightly, remembering how much pain she’d been in after the terrorist cell had tortured her. Sherlock felt a a ghost of the rage he had felt then tingle through his veins and clenched his fists at his sides, trying to keep his breathing steady as he glared at Magnussen.

“You saved her,” John said, incredulously, “All this time I thought you hated her but you-” John paused, lost for words, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Magnussen cut across him, “Because, Dr. Watson,” Magnessun rose from his seat,  “Sherlock knows that if anyone knew that he’d saved Miss. Adler’s life,” Magnessun rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, “they could do something like this.” He snapped his fingers and two men came into the room, hauling with them, dressed in a crinkled white blouse and tight pencil skirt, her dark hair falling in frazzled waves around her shoulders with her hands handcuffed behind her back, the Woman.

Sherlock fought the urge not to shout as he listened to his blood rush in his ears, the only sound he could hear, his own heart slamming into his ribs as they made eye contact for the first time in years. Though, through his rage, a part of him felt an odd satisfaction that despite Miss Adler’s current predicament, she still carried that unmistakable smirk upon her thin red lips.

The men hurled her down onto the lounge beside Magnussen as he waved them away without so much as a thank you. Irene crossed her legs, one over the other. All the while her large eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. He wondered how, in this situation, some part of his mind managed to form a thought along the lines of ‘beautiful’.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I must say when I envisioned you, me and handcuffs, I didn’t account for Dr. Watson” she let her eyes slide over John before returning them to Sherlock’s, “But the more the merrier.” Sherlock struggled to respond as Magnussen grabbed her face with his hand. Sherlock watched with gritted teeth as Magnessun lowered his face to press his cheek against hers. 

Irene maintained her resolve. But Sherlock observed her chest began to rise and fall rapidly as Magnussen pressed a gun to her ribs.

“You can’t hide her, Mr. Holmes. You can’t protect her and, though you tried your best I know, you can’t save her. But look how you care for Irene Adler, the woman who beat you.” Sherlock fought the urge to launch himself at Magnussen as he began to drag his lips across Irene’s cheek. 

“But you’re a naughty one, aren’t you Miss Adler? Oh, yes,” Magnussen began running his fingers down Irene’s arm as he whispered the words into her neck. Sherlock knew his hands were shaking with the effort to stand still but there was no point moving against him. Not yet.

“All those secrets, all those lies, all those scandals. You had the nation at your feet, Miss Adler. But now, all those secrets, they’re mine and more importantly that means,” Irene’s face contorted in disgust as Magnussen licked it. Sherlock was glad John held up an arm, reminding him to stay where he was, “So, are you.” Magnussen continued, “This is how it works, Mr. Holmes. Miss Adler here is going to keep me company for a while in whatever manner I so choose, and you are going to allow that, or your brother will find out you saved a national fugitive. Word travels fast among terrorists and, from what I hear, they paid a pretty price for her head. Imagine what they’ll do if they find out it’s still attached to her body.” Irene was glaring at Magnussen.

“Everything you knew Miss. Adler is right here in my mind palace and unless you co-operate,” Magnussen brought his lips to her ear, “This will be the last you see of Mr. Sherlock Holmes alive.”

Irene’s voice was low when she responded, “Everything I know, Mr. Magnussen?”

“Just to be clear,” Sherlock growled, barely controlling his speech, “Appledore records exist in your mind and nowhere else?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you’d know that I’m very good with handcuffs” Irene said.

What happened next happened so fast it was over in seconds.

Irene, having broken out of her handcuffs, thrashed Magnussen across the face with them. Magnussen screeched, turning his head with the weight the blow as Irene grabbed the gun he had been holding against her ribs and tossed it to Sherlock.

“MOVE!” Sherlock shouted and Irene dived out of the way. John, seeing what Sherlock was going to do moved to stop him. But it was too late. Sherlock fired the bullet from Magnussen’s gun and heard the crack as it collided with his skull. His body fell limp as blood poured from his temple. Charles Augustus Magnussen’s last smirk still etched on his face. John’s voice came back into focus slowly. He was shouting,

“Holly shit! Jesus Christ! Sherlock! Your brother’s going to be here any minute! What’s he going to find? A gun with your fingerprints on it, Magnussen’s body and Irene bloody Adler!”

Sherlock suddenly turned to look at Irene standing beside him. She was rubbing her wrists which were red where she’d wriggled free from the cuffs. Sherlock reached out, brushing his fingers against the marks as he lightly held her hand to inspect it for any permanent damage. He knew there would be none, but he needed to rationalize his need to touch her somehow.

“Are you alright?” His voice sounded oddly gentle in contrast to John’s yelling as he looked down into her face. She waved away his concern, though she didn’t pull away her arm.

“Are you alright?” She asked back, holding his gaze, “You did just kill a man.” Sherlock shrugged, giving her a cheeky smile, unable to help himself,

“Please, isn’t this how our dates usually go?” Sherlock watched her red lips curl into a smile and after a moment she said,

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes”

“My pleasure, Miss Adler” John came rushing back inside, neither of them noticing he had left.

“Hate to interrupt whatever the hell this is!” John said, panting. “But you’ve got 30 seconds before your brother and half of MI6 come in here to arrest you.” Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“You should run,” Irene said, her hand still in Sherlock’s, “We could both run.” her voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned into him, “Both of us on the run from your brother.” Sherlock chuckled in his throat,

“I’d get bored”

“I’d find some way to entertain you,” she whispered into his lips. Sherlock watched as the pupils of her eyes grew larger, knowing that his were doing the same. He sighed and with a momentous effort, spoke the next words,

“Please, go. You have seconds.”

She gave him a long smug sigh so he could taste her breath on his lips

“You’ll miss me, Mr. Holmes”

“Yes,” he paused still unable to look away from her, “I know” she brushed her lips against his before she turned to leave the way she came, giving a nod and a wink to John as she did. Sherlock gazed after her for a moment before turning to step into Magnessun’s front yard to face his brother and his non existent future. John grabbed his shoulder, he seemed to be shaking with rage,

“Goddammit, Sherlock! Just answer me this! One question before you go out there, just tell me. Was she worth it? Huh? Was Irene Adler worth all this?”

“Is Mary worth the life of Charles Augustus Magnussen?” Sherlock spat the name.

“That’s not-”

“He had information on her as well. You know that.”

“But you didn’t shoot him until he laid a finger on that Woma-”

“ _The_  Woman” Sherlock corrected him, “And yes,” Sherlock put his hands above his head, “She is worth it” he finished, as he stepped out into the bright spotlight of his brother’s helicopter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, dear! Originally published here on my tumblr: http://letzplaymurder.tumblr.com/post/79865581384/a-scandal-at-appledore-but-look-how-you-care


	11. The Night Before The End Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler is waiting for Sherlock at Baker Street immediately after the events of His Last Vow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading! This prompt was actually the first part of a 3 part fic called 'His Last Goodbye', but I am not going to publish the other 2 parts here on my ao3 simply because His Last Goodbye was sort of like a compressed quick test run of The Price Retrouvailles and they're just too similar. If you want to read it, however, you can find it on my tumblr (letzplaymurder) under 'links & creations' > fan-fiction > others > Adlock
> 
> Love, Merry xo

“If you’re going to jump out and say ‘boo’ I’d rather you didn’t. This day has has been full of things that were meant to surprise me. Frankly, there’s only so much energy I can put into my surprise face before it wears thin.” Sherlock had barely placed his hands behind his back when he heard her voice. Feeling it wash over him from the shadows. Despite his complete and utter exhaustion from the stresses of the day, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“You’re no fun, Mr. Holmes”

Sherlock watched as she unhitched herself from the wall she’d been leaning on near Baker Street’s tall windows. His eyes slid over her as she walked towards him, taking in her delicate frame that was so intimately familiar to him. Though, on this occasion she was wearing clothes, Sherlock noted the tight black dress that did her smooth curves and thin waist more than enough justice.

He blinked. Surprised to find she was now standing in front of him.

“Did you miss me?” Sherlock said, his voice mocking. He watched her thin red lips curl into a smile. Evidently, she’d seen the news.

“Here I was thinking I was the only adversary you couldn’t resist keeping alive,” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “I thought I was special,” he smiled, unable to resist any longer.

“It’s a service I provide, ‘Need to fake your death? Okay! Just give me a puzzle and watch me dance. Note, if you outsmart me, the service is free.’” She laughed at the sarcasm in his voice.

“I did always take you for a self servicing kind of man” She replied. Sherlock chuckled at that, feeling her lean into him as he did. He tried desperately to ignore his heart as it pounded in his ears and tried to blame it on his exhaustion.

“Are you frightened, Mr Holmes?” she whispered, a playful edge to her voice that caused a gnawing sensation in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach, he knew had nothing to do with the fact he hadn't eaten in 2 days.

“Of what?” His voice was low in his throat as he held her gaze.

“You destroyed two years of your life to kill that man. But here he is.”

“Annoyed? Yes. Impressed? Almost assuredly. But frightened?” He knew his voice had been dripping with smugness though when he finished, it seemed less so. “I should be. But nothing is more assuring then finally knowing for certain what a man is capable of.” He watched as her eyes slid to his lips.

“And what are you capable of, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“I,” he said, as his fingers found hers at her side and quickly entwined themselves around one another without taking his eyes off hers, “am capable,” he watched her pupils grow larger, “of having patience with you. Despite, the staggering amount of times I have expressly told you not to come here and to get out of London.”

She continued to smile at him, “You’re not exactly pushing me away,” her lips were so close to his now it was a wonder they weren’t actually touching. Sherlock was suddenly glad John had gone home with Mary and hadn’t come back with him.

“Jim Moriarty is back.” Her voice was husky.

“A keen observation.”

“All hell is going to break loose. No one will be safe. Not even you.”

“Most likely,” Sherlock tried to keep his voice casual but it was almost  impossible when he could feel nearly every part of her body  pressed against the corresponding part of his. His heart was slamming against his ribcage. She was standing so close, he was sure he could feel hers racing against his chest.

“You could say, Mr Holmes, that this is your last night before the world ends.”

He sighed, “Despite your death. You’ve lost none of your predisposition for dramatics.” She smiled at him and as she did Sherlock was caught with a sudden idea. He closed the gap between their lips swiftly, feeling hers form a smile beneath his own as the kiss slowly grew deeper and the gnawing in Sherlock’s stomach became an almost unbearably pleasant pain.

Kissing Janine had felt mechanical. It had felt so easy, so dull kissing Janine. Like catching a train to the bank or waiting in line for a ticket. But as Sherlock kissed Irene Adler, he felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire. As if his whole body were the battlefield of a war he was simultaneously loosing and winning. He was drowning, but as the taste of her lips consumed his carefully trained mind, he’d never felt more alive. He pulled away from her slowly.

“Let’s have dinner,” he made sure his voice sounded dazed, though he’d never felt more focused and smiled at the shock that flickered behind her eyes. Though, she maintained the ever-present smirk on her red swollen lips.

“It really must be the end of the world” he felt her breath on his lips.

“If you don’t want to then it’s fine.” his voice was mocking.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “What’s the catch?”

“I’m offended that you-” Sherlock began.

“The catch, Sherlock.”

He sighed. They were still standing so close. Their hands still intertwined. The residual heat from their kiss still pulsating in the air between them.

“After dinner you leave London. Get on a plane go to America, China, I don’t care just get out of Europe and the UK. Moriarty’s back. I thought he was dead. I really did. But he isn’t. I can hope he doesn’t know you’re alive but there’s no way I know it for sure. You were right, last time he destroyed me and he used the people I care about to do it and I can’t let that happen again. John and Mary, I can’t convince them but -” he paused,

“I saved your life, Miss Adler. Please, try keeping it safe.” he paused then added, trying to sound bored, “and dinner, of course.”

Irene sighed, staring at him for a moment. Then she turned away from him and headed towards the door. Sherlock felt his heart falter for a moment before she turned around and said,

“Well now, you’re wasting valuable dinner time just standing there.” He smiled before helping her into her coat and offering her his arm as they set out into the evening. Sherlock knowing it would be a night he’d likely never forget.


	12. The Spaces Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Irene Adler was responsible for Jim Moriarty's broadcast?

Sherlock was so exhausted that his very bones were vibrating. As if his anatomy was screaming at his reeling mind to please, just let him sleep. Sherlock had fallen into bed fully clothed. His his heart still hammering as if he’d only just seen Moriarty’s message, rather than it being 10 hours ago. 

He laid there for a while, staring at Baker Street’s grubby ceiling. Following each of the thin cracks that splinted the paint. A thin spider swung loosely from a dusty tendril of web from one of them. It was alive, but it didn’t move very often. From the corner of his eye, his digital clock flashed feebly. 3am. It was 3 hours till dawn and 4 hours since he returned to Baker Street and from his condemnation of exile. 

Sherlock blinked, but the ceiling remained unchanged. The spider still hung and sleep still evaded him. 

A sound other than silence. A click on the lock of his bedroom window.  A pair of feet landing lightly, muffled by the carpet of his room. 

Sherlock might have panicked, or even reacted, if the smell of her perfume wasn’t as intimately familiar to him as the rest of her. He listened to the rustle of his sheets as she slid across them into bed beside him. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and it became an effort to continue to stare pointedly at the ceiling.

“Can’t sleep?” Her voice was low rumble close to his ear.

“You’re one to talk.” He replied. The spider moved.

“Not easy, is it?” Her voice was a tease as always, though there was a morsel of pity behind it.

“What?” Sherlock frowned, though still avoided looking at her.

“Killing someone important.”

“Ah, is that why you’re here? To gloat about your successful career as a murderess?" 

She chuckled at him and sighed, "Not tonight.” Her voice washed over him, he felt like he was drowning.

“Then, what?” Finally, he turned his head to glare at her.

Saying goodbyes to Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mary- saying goodbye to John. Knowing he would never see them again, but assuming the attitude of someone leaving for a temporary vacation. Complete with till the next times when there would not be any. Jim Moriarty was back and Sherlock thought that after all that had happened today his body would have been drained of the ability to feel anything other than fear. 

But, as he turned his head towards her, dragging his eyes up her elegantly clothed and curved frame that was so lazily turned towards him, his bones began to buzz with something other than the desire to sleep. Something that made Sherlock resent the space of empty sheets between them. Something he knew that had nothing to do with sleep at all. Her hazel eyes glinted in the dark opposite him.

“Look at that face,” she tutted, “you’d think the world had ended, Mr Holmes.” Her voice was low. Almost throaty. Sherlock balled his hands into fists, willing himself not to turn his whole body towards her,

“Didn’t you see the news, Miss Adler?” Sherlock’s voice was pitifully sarcastic, “Or did you miss me?” He rolled the last phrase slowly off his tongue, watching her lips curl into a smile.

“Neither.”

“You expect me to believe your presence and Moriarty’s return is a happy coincidence?”

“I expect you to think.”

Sherlock frowned at her before rolling his eyes back up to the ceiling. He wanted to ask her what she meant. He always wanted to ask her that. What do you mean? Why are you here? Whose side are you on now? Too many questions and she wouldn’t answer a single one of them because Irene Adler was a question. A question he struggled to answer. But the constant gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he listened to her breathe beside him told him he knew the answer nonetheless. He snapped his head back towards her,

“You knew.” He whispered.

“A little more than that.”

Sherlock was frowning again, “Is this your idea of warning me about him? Because the world’s media beat you to it, sorry.” There was silence between them for a moment before he felt the breath of her response brush his lips,

“And is that your idea of a thank you?" 

Whatever retort Sherlock had prepared for her rhetoric snagged in his chest as his mind begin to process-

"You released the-”

“Call it returning a favor.”

“Saving your life wasn’t a favor.” Sherlock hissed.

“I suspect saving yours won’t be either.”

“So why bother?" 

She smiled at him, "Jim Moriarty has a plan for you that I’m sure you’d prefer it if it did not go smoothly.”

“I’d prefer-? Or maybe this was his plan. Did you think of that?”

“Either way you’re alive. Isn’t that preferable?”

“Preferable? To who?” Sherlock saw his incredulous face reflected twice in her eyes. Realizing then that at some point he must’ve turned his body towards her, after all. 

“I’d prefer the knowledge that everything I have done for the last four years - Saved your life, dismantling the worlds largest criminal network, incriminating myself to prevent the most dangerous man in Europe controlling the lives of people I -” he stopped, his voice almost slurring with exhaustion,  "I’d prefer that all wasn’t for nothing.“ He finished rather lamely,

"Don’t be so dramatic.” Irene whispered, “Don’t mourn for your exile when the alternative is Jim Moriarty comes back and there’s no one to distract him.” She reached out a hand and traced her finger down his jawline, “Everyone is still here. Even you.” Sherlock could feel himself fighting the words, but his cheek was burning where she stroked it and they fell thickly from his tired lips before he could stop them,

“Are you really here?”

She didn’t answer. Simply curled her lips into a smile before brushing them against his.

 Unlike other kisses they’d shared it didn’t set him on fire. This kiss didn’t burn through him. But warmed him. A kind of warmth that uncoiled all the clenched nerves in his body. The kind of warmth that spread from her lips down into his chest and calmed the hammering of his heart and spread to his fingertips. His fist unfurling at his side to reach up hold her face. Feeling the heat of her blush beneath his fingertips as his hand moved slowly down her cheek to her jawline. As if he could pull her warmth beneath his skin. The kiss started to deepen and Sherlock felt her pull away to breathe her next words into his lips,

“Sleep, Mr Holmes. Believe it or not, your world will still be here when you wake up.”

“And you?” Sherlock’s voice was as groggy as he felt. She chuckled and he felt the bed move with the motion as she stroked his cheek,

“I’m not your world, Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open. Fought to keep looking at her as she lay beside him in his bed. His hand feeling too heavy to to pull away from her cheek as his body tingled with the taste of her lips and the tiredness in his bones. But it was no use. Sherlock felt himself sink into unconsciousness with his response unspoken. Sitting in his chest with all the other words he’d never say to her,

"No. You’re not,” he thought, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing about this fic is that I don't remember writing it at all. I found it in the back of some travel notes a couple of months after my trip to Europe with a single note from myself at the end that read, "maybe souls miss feelings as badly as people miss each other"


	13. A Fascinating Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a text from a member of the homeless network one day saying that Irene is in mortal danger.

“John, are you even listening to me?”

John looked up at his best friend and smiled, continuing to tickle baby Ella Watson’s tummy as she squirmed, giggling, atop a mass of pillows on the floor in the Watson’s living room.

“I heard you, mate. But there’s been nothing on Moriarty since the broadcast. It’s been months. Maybe it’s a hoax? I mean, knowing him, he would’ve texted you by now or something.” Coincidently, Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his hand. Sighing, he looked down at the message that was flashing on the tiny screen and felt his heart drop into his stomach.

 _The Woman sends her regards, Mr Holmes._ Sherlock recognised the number as one of his Homeless Network contacts. Underneath it were the coordinates for Millennium Bridge. He stood up abruptly.

“Everything okay, Sherlock?” Mary chirped, frowning at him over the rim of her teacup.

“Sherlock?” John echoed.

“What? Yes, fine. Homeless Network were helping me with an old case. They think they’ve found something. I have to go.” Sherlock stepped over baby Ella as he headed to the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John get up to follow him. John grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to turn around when they reached the hallway,

“Is it Moriarty?” His voice was low, “Because if it is, Sherlock, you are not facing him alone this time, you hear me?” Sherlock groaned, tearing himself out of John’s grip, his heart hammering.

“It isn’t, John. It really is just an old case.” Sherlock reached for the door behind him, “its fine. Go see to your family.”

Sherlock heard John mutter, “I am”, before he slammed the door behind him and ran up the street to where he saw a cab parked. Hurling himself into the cab, the driver swore and was about to make further protest when,

“50 quid if you can get me to Millenium Bridge in 5 minutes.”

The driver took off. Sherlock aware that in the first two minutes of the journey he’d broken at least a dozen road laws. He silently thanked the lacking of London’s traffic cops. Red light.

“Run it!” Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth. He hated cab drivers at the best of times. The cab accelerated. 3 minutes. The next two minutes passed like an age as the taxi cut through intersections and ran more red lights. Though, Sherlock was slightly impressed when they came screeching to a halt on Millennium bridge. Throwing money at the cabby, Sherlock flung himself out the door. He spun wildly around on the pavement, his chest felt tight. Had he misread the instructions-?

“Well, that was fast, Mr Holmes.” Whispered a voice in his ear and, though he couldn’t feel the cool March air through his coat, he felt shiver creep beneath his skin as he turned to face her slowly and felt the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding leave his lungs.

“What,” he growled, “the hell do you think you’re doing?”

A smile curled her thin red lips, “You’ve got my phone, remember? I had to find another way to contact you and I know you can be,” she licked her top lip, “reluctant. So, I found another way to get your attention.”

“You can’t just- I thought you were-” Sherlock ran a hand down his face in an effort to ignore the relief that tingled through his veins, “What do you want?”

She stepped towards him, “Don’t I get a hello?” 

“No.”

She was standing close enough so that he could feel the heat coming off her, “Did you miss me?” she smirked at him.

“Don’t.” Sherlock turned away from her, looking out over the Thames. “Come on.” He said, walking away from her, down towards a bench on the walkway to their left. Following him, Sherlock could see her smile out of the corner of his eye. They walked for about 15 minutes before Sherlock stopped and turned to look at her.

Her beige trench coat russled against her jeans as she stopped walking and looked at him. Sherlock, not helping himself in noticing that the top 3 buttons of her blouse were undone. Irene scowled playfully at him,

“No CCTV around here?” She mused.

Sherlock blinked,“No.” he brought his eyes back up to hers as she took a few steps closer to him. “Why are you-?”

“I miss London.”

“Well, London’s not safe. You need to leave.”

“And it’s safe enough for you?” she scoffed.

“Please, leave. I’m asking you, nicely.”

“Not nicely enough, Mr Holmes.” She teased, but Sherlock was gritting his teeth,

“Do you know what I went through to save your life? You should, you were there for most of it. Then, I believed I killed Moriarty and spent two years supposedly dismantling his network only to discover that he is, in fact, not dead. So, when you send mildly threatening messages to me, via the network I’ve designed to find him, all so you can tell me pathetic lies about your scenic tendencies.” He paused, “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re forgiven.” She retorted, Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes at her as she continued, “I just wanted to know if you’d found him yet.” Her eyes slid down his body, “Clearly you haven’t.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock snapped, sitting down on the bench behind them and looking away from her. Minutes past in silence. Irene began rubbing her hands together. It was unseasonably cold weather, Sherlock wondered why she hadn’t worn gloves. He got up,

“For god’s sake,” he muttered, now standing directly in front of her, “Stop that.” He rested his hands on hers. Trying not to think about the tingling sensation in his fingers when he did. She looked back up at him,

“Your apologies are always so fascinating, Mr Holmes.”

He chuckled, still holding her hand, “Who said I was apologizing?” A smug smile curled her lips before he kissed them. It wasn’t a lingering kiss but it was enough to make him forget about Moriarty. Even if it was just for a moment before she pulled away, sighing,

“Do me a favour, darling?” she whispered into his lips, “Don’t let him destroy you. We still haven’t had dinner.”

“If I live through this, it’ll be my treat.”

“It’s a date.” And with a peck on the cheek, turned on her heel and walked away. Leaving Sherlock’s cheek burning and his heart pounding against his ribs. After a moment, he turned around to walk back towards the road, and ran straight into John Watson.

“John!”

“You didn’t think after all those times you followed me, I didn’t learn anything?”

“John, I can explain-”

“I heard enough.” Sherlock desperately tried to read the expression on his best friends face. But for all his deductive reasoning, he couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Are you angry?” Sherlock asked.

John blew air out of his cheeks, raising an eyebrow at him, “I would be,” he paused, sighing, “But I lied to you about her too. Even if the lie was technically true, so it seems. Do you need a lift?” He asked.

Sherlock blinked at him, “Yeah,” he said, his voice sounded more tired than he expected, “Thanks.” They started walking, Sherlock following in step with John in silence until they reached his car a few streets over and got into it.

“It must be hard.” John stated. Sherlock said nothing. “I mean, you saved her but you can’t really be with her or anything…” John trailed off, “I’m sorry-”

“Please,” Sherlock cut across him, “Just drive. I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention her to anyone. that includes me.” Sherlock heard John giggle,

“You got it,” he paused and added, “darling.” Sherlock punched him in the arm before they headed back to Baker St.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to send me a prompt on tumblr (letzplaymurder). 
> 
> I don't ship Johnlock, but their friendship is just as important to me as Sherlock and Irene's connection. More importantly, I think it's just as important to Sherlock. Also, I'm very weary of people who write John's reaction as angry when he finds out Irene is alive in their fics because I honestly don't know why he would be. Especially, since he saw how unhappy Sherlock was when he thought she was dead etc.


	14. A Social Visit

_**Sherlock Holmes had been sitting at the small kitchen table in Irene Adler’s apartment for 5 hours before she had staggered through the door with a gash to her forehead.** _

She didn’t seem to notice him as she flitted around wildly pulling open kitchen draws in search of a first-aid kit. Sherlock frowned, concern bubbling through his veins, making his heart race, but then-

“Oh, please, don’t get up, Mr. Holmes.” She snapped. His intention to surprise her vanishing.

“Tell me, Miss Adler, which terrorist cell do I have to destroy now?” He drawled as he walked passed her, reached under the sink and produced the first aid kit. He gestured for her to take a seat.

“You’re hilarious, Mr, Holmes.” She scowled at him as she assumed the seat he’d been occupying. The hand she was holding to her cut now stained with blood. Sherlock assumed the seat opposite, pulling it closer so their faces were level and, Sherlock’s heart gave a non-consensual flutter at the realization, that they were inches apart.

 Irene took her blood stained hand away from her head, revealing the thin gash that seemed to look worse than it was.

 "Knife wound.“ Sherlock said, frowning, "Pocket knife, certainly blunt.” he began tearing up an alcohol soaked rag.

 "Really?“ Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and sighed,

 "Tilt your head up a bit.”

 "That’s what all the men say. I thought you were different," she said mockingly as she tilted her head. He chuckled, their faces so close he felt her breath on his cheeks as he gently reached his hand up to dab her cut with the rag.

 "You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he placed the fingers of his other hand lightly against her cheek to hold her face steady to dab the cut. He knew he didn’t need to. But he wanted to rationalize his need to touch her. Though, however hard he tried, he could never rationalize the relief he felt when he did.

 "Do I have to destroy another terrorist cell? Or just tell you not to play with knives?“

 "Save your cutlass for the bedroom, dear. I can handle knife wielding overweight thugs.”

 "Obviously." Sherlock watched her wince as he cleaned the last of the wound.

 "The three of them are in hospital.”

 "Three?“ Sherlock felt himself stiffen for a moment. A smile curled her lips, inches from his. He recovered himself, "And they drew blood? You’re slipping, Miss Adler.”

“You worry too much, Mr. Holmes.” She waved away his concern, though she continued to let him clean the cut. Apart from Sherlock’s mutterings about her not needing stitches and digging through the kit for a band aid, they sat in silence for a few moments. Sherlock aware that she was staring at him,

“Why are you here?” she asked, just as he found a band aid and turned to face her. Sherlock blinked at her for a moment before peeling off the band aid packaging and brushing her hair aside. Saying nothing as placed the band aid over he now clean cut.

‘Because you,“ he said, snapping the first aid kit shut and pushing it across the table, "clearly can’t stay out of trouble.”

Irene made tutting noise, "Is listening to you tell me how irresponsible I am with my life always going to be our little foreplay?” There was a playful edge to her voice. Sherlock let his eyes slide over her before he responded. Taking in the way her fitted blouse flattered her subtly curved frame,

“If you weren’t so obviously irresponsible with your life,” his voice was low as his eyes came to rest on hers, “I wouldn’t have to.”

Irene rolled her eyes. Their faces so close, Sherlock could see the way the corners of her lips quirked up when she did.

“Jim Moriarty reappears, you told me to get out of London,” her voice was a whisper against his lips, “Yet here you are dressing my wounds. Maybe I should be the one lecturing you.” Sherlock chuckled, not taking his eyes off her as she continued, “So, again, why are you here?”

“The scenery,” he muttered, smugly.

“Sherlock.”

“What?” He tried to give her an innocent look, but she raised an eyebrow at him. He sighed, looking away from her for a moment and running his fingers distractedly through his hair. No one ever made him feel this restless and it irritated him how much he enjoyed it. Sherlock puffed the air out of his cheeks, Irene watched him, frowning, before he spoke. His voice sounding more glum than angry,

“It’s been 3 months since Moriarty’s broadcast. He hasn’t done anything.” Irene remained silent as he continued, “I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. No one does. I can guess, but I really don’t know.” Sherlock rubbed his eyes, “I thought I did before, that’s why I disappeared for two years. But that’s worth nothing now. I killed Magnussen to keep John and Mary safe. To keep everyone safe. But Moriarty just-” Sherlock put his face in his hands. Irene was still frowning,

“So-?” Irene paused, “You’re here because you think I might know something about Moriarty, Mr. Holmes?” She sounded offended. Sherlock lifted his face from his hands, incredulity written all over his face which was now, once again level with hers,

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted.

“So, this is a social visit?” she leaned forward, again. Her lips inches from his once more.

“No.” his eyes slid to her lips and back, “I just wanted to make sure-”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were here.” He said, finally.

She chuckled, “Sounds like a social visit,” she teased, “Almost sounds like you missed-” Sherlock swallowed her words with his lips as he closed the distance between them before she could finish. He felt her lean into him as he reached his hand up to rest his fingers on her cheek. Sherlock’s pulse was screaming in his ears as Irene smiled beneath his lips and he felt her hands on either side of his face, pulling him closer. Her fingers stroking his cheek down to to his jawline. Sherlock had always been simultaneously frustrated and fascinated by how deep his kisses with Irene Adler could be and how, despite it, the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach would only grow stronger. He pulled away from her. But only enough so their lips were parted. Irene let out a soft giggle, brushing her forehead against his,

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered into his lips.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Adler.” He smiled, “You know my flight back to London isn’t for another 2 hours.”

She grinned at him, pressing her forehead against his, “I’m sure we can find find something to do until then.”

———————————————————————

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I wrote this short one day to cheer myself up. Hope it did that for you xox


	15. Name Of The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has birthdays.

_“Why are you here?”_

_“You already know why.”_

_“I know. I was giving you the opportunity to lie.”_

_“How courteous of you, Mr Holmes.”_

_“Aren’t you going to?”_

_“Lie?”_

_“Mm.” Sherlock watched the crease in Irene’s forehead deepen as she frowned at the chessboard between them. Her fingers dancing restlessly over the space between her bishop and her king. Sherlock’s eyes flitted from her eyes to her fingers as he waited for her response._

“No.” she said, lifting up her hand to tug morosely at her bottom lip as she continued to frown at the chessboard. She was curled up in John’s chair, Sherlock had pulled his chair forward so that only the coffee table on which their chess game was on sat between them.

“You’re not going to lie?” Sherlock mocked. Finally, she looked up at him. His heart fluttered involuntarily.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mr Holmes.” Irene moved her king safely out of reach of Sherlock’s queen. Frowning, he leaned forward.

“But you,” he mused as his fingers brushed the tops of his chess pieces, “telling me the truth. It must be a,” his fingers settling on his knight, “special occasion.” He glanced up at her as he moved it to trap Irene’s queen between it and his king. She raised an eyebrow at him, her mouth twitching in an effort not to smile,

“Maybe this is just how I am?” She pondered playfully, peeping up at him between considering her next move,

“Maybe that’s the point.” He answered,

“Ohhhhhh?” she said, alight with apparent interest, though she didn’t look up from the chessboard “There’s a point, is there?” he chuckled,

“It is you, isn’t it?” letting his eyes slide over her, “Miss Adler?” Irene’s lips seemed to curl into a smile at the sound of her own name as she looked up at him and leaned back in his chair, away from the table between them,

“It is indeed me, Mr Holmes.” Without breaking eye contact, she reached out her arm and pushed her queen up the board, “And that’s checkmate.” Sherlock tore his eyes away from her and looked down at their game. Unfortunately, on this occasion she wasn’t lying. Sherlock frowned before looking back up at her inherently smug expression,

“So, it is.” She was grinning at him, “Should you really be humiliating your only friend in the afterlife?” Sherlock saw her eyes widen, though, she hitched back her smirk almost instantly,

“Are we friends, now, Mr Holmes?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t? You grew tired of yet another alias?”

“But are we friends?” Irene’s fingers traced patterns in the air.

Sherlock felt his eye twitch, “No.”

A smile curled her lips, “Good.” Her voice was low as they held each other’s gaze for a few moments. Sherlock, realizing the pounding he could hear in his ears, was his heart slamming against his ribs.

He glanced away from her, “I want a rematch” he stated. Evidently, she was enjoying his torment,

“Too bad. You should’ve paid more attention to your queen.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” He muttered, distractedly, seeing her lips twitch upwards into a smile, despite him trying his hardest not to look at her.

He heard the sound of the chess pieces hitting the floor, but not before he felt the weight of her body as she expertly lowered herself onto his thighs. Sherlock gasped, feeling her chuckle against his chest as she wrapped her thighs around his waist. The chemical reactions occurring beneath his skin, as she ensured no part of her body wasn’t touching his, made him ball his hands into fists at his sides as she draped hers lazily around his neck,

“Don’t I have the right to be myself on my birthday?” She whispered down into his lips. Sherlock could feel her body heat seeping through his jacket,

“That’s not how you reset a chessboard.” He breathed, unable to look anywhere but up into her face,

“Mr Holmes-” she teased,

“Oh, is it your birthday?” Sherlock tried to sound surprised but they were so close he could feel her heart racing against his chest, or was it his own? “I hadn’t noticed.” He finished.

“Really?” her voice was low as Sherlock tried to keep his hands at his sides,

“Philosophically, can you have a birthday if you’re dea-?” he didn’t even manage to finish his question before she pressed her lips against his and closed any possible remaining space between them. Sherlock sucked in his breath, his face felt as if it was burning along with every other cell in his body as he felt her lean into him. His heat beating so loud against his eardrums, it had become a buzzing that echoed around his skull.

Sherlock wondered if she could feel how fast his heart was racing as the only thing between them now was his suit and his scarlet dressing gown she had put on after her bath, after all. He wondered whether Mrs Hudson had heard his shout of surprise when she had turned up at the door this morning. He wondered why the Woman had wanted to play chess. But, most of all, he wondered why he was resisting her.

And as Sherlock relaxed into the taste of her lips and felt her smile against his own, it was the last coherent observation that ran thought in his mind before he allowed his fingers to trace up her thighs. Letting them travel up her waist before they rested on her cheeks, pulling her somehow closer. The burning he felt in every part of his body made him feel as if he wanted to pull her into his very skin. As if that would somehow douse the flame, though, something told Sherlock it wouldn’t.

Feeling her shudder against him, she pulled away only just far enough that Sherlock could still feel the breath of her chuckle on his lips.

“Always good to see you, Mr Holmes.” She laughed, her voice barely a whisper as she smiled down at him. Their heads were so close that the tips of his curls tickled her forehead. Sherlock let his hands trail lazily back down her waist,

“Happy Birthday, Miss Adler.” Sherlock whispered into the slither of air between them as he reached up a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, “I don’t believe in gift giving, sorry.” She giggled, her forehead brushing against his,

“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for chess metaphors. I also like playing with the idea that Sherlock is a bit of a touchstone for Irene as much as she is for him cos he knows she's alive and she doesn't have to maintain an alias around him and stuff.


	16. An Unexpected Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So we stood hand-in-hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.”  
> ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four
> 
> The following short is a sequel to my work, The Price Of Retrouvailles. If you have no intention of reading TPoR then you do not need to read it to enjoy yourself here. But if you do intend to read it, I suggest you venture no further.

The question Sherlock Holmes wanted to ask Irene Adler vanished from his mind as he watched her…well, _fall_ through her front door.

Every atom he was composed of flinched towards her, but Miss Adler herself was quite preoccupied reprimanding her high heel in stern whispers. Apparently, it getting caught on the welcome mat was what had caused her topple. Flopping herself to her feet, Irene swayed and dropped her black leather handbag, squinting her eyes against the dim light occupying her small loft apartment. The only light source, artificial and dirty, crawled across the floorboards through a large window, separating the city rattling 3 floors below from Sherlock's own shoes and Miss Adler’s disobedient heels.

However, Irene Adler did not turn a light on. Instead, she walked right past where Sherlock sat at her small round table, heading straight for her cramped yellow kitchen  with a single minded determination that didn’t quite reach her legs, which carried her forward in a manner that suggested she was both surprised and pleased that she could move at all.

The word tugged at the edges of Sherlock’s mind well before her rosy red cheeks caught the light leaking through the kitchen window and confirmed his observations.

_Drunk._

_Irene Adler was drunk._

Sherlock barely had time to stifle the chuckle tickling the back of his throat, before Irene flicked her low hanging kitchen light. The shadows hiding him dissolved, but Sherlock dared not move.

Blinking, crinkling her nose in the sudden light and sniffing, Irene bent down, opened her fridge, retrieved a colourful carton of juice and closed the door with a clumsy flourish. The clunk of the fridge door made her giggle. Sherlock had to bite his tongue to stop himself laughing at the pride that flooded the Woman’s features after downing a mouthful without spilling anything.

_Very very drunk._

Licking her lips, Irene smacked them together like a child eating ice-cream, humming an unintelligible melody between each gulp as if each mouthful of juice was so satisfying it was worth singing about. As if no action in the world could be any more peaceful than draining half a litre of juice to the tune buzzing between your ears at 3am. All whilst sliding gradually down your mustard yellow kitchen cupboards to the floor. Watching, Sherlock could not stop his own lips twitching upward despite himself.

Stretching her legs out, Irene rested the back of her head against the cupboards behind her and closed her eyes. A poor decision as it meant that when she threw the carton in the general direction of the bin a few feet to her left, it missed its target entirely. The carton clattered dully on the orange linoleum, jolting Irene to her senses to survey the carton with a glare so intense that the carton’s failure to land in the bin might as well have been a murderous conspiracy against her.  

“Have it your own way,” she shrugged after a pause, closing her eyes to resume her humming.

For a minute or so, Irene’s off key melodic drawl filled the air, mixing with the din of the city beneath them. But it came to a screeching halt when a rather impressive belch burst from her plum colored cheeks. Irene's already large eyes managed to widen even further at the sound and Sherlock had to bite his tongue once more to bury his laughter at how shocked Miss Adler seemed at the bravado of her own body functions. But her body quickly relapsed back into a fit of guffaws and giggles and she laid her head back and closed her eyes once again.

Sherlock considered revealing himself to her then, but watching the deceptively unobserved was an opportunity too rare to end prematurely. Besides, his presence was still going unnoticed by the Woman, despite the fact he was no longer in shadow.

“Time!” Irene exclaimed with a triumph that suggested her entire life now had purpose, making Sherlock jump as she checked an expensive looking watch adorning her wrist. Brow furrowed, she scowled and squinted at its face. She was holding it so close that the gold light bouncing off it played  strange patterns across her nose as her wrist moved. “Does that mean it’s early or late?” she asked no one in particular. “It probably won’t be in the news yet, will it?” she muttered with a snigger. Sherlock frowned.

“Is it tomorrow if you haven’t fallen asleep, or is it still today?” she wondered aloud. Irene considered this question for a few minutes. But after a sniff, she shook her head and reached forward to begin the process of pulling off her heels.

This process fascinated Sherlock more than it should have, seeming to require the employment of her entire body and Irene was not overly pleased about this. No doubt owing to the low plunging black dress ending below her knees that constricted her movement somewhat.

Groaning, she curled her legs around beside her hips, ruffling up the tulle of her dress, and began to twist the heels off her feet. A minute of apparently great struggle passed by, but with an unadulterated sigh of relief, Irene flung her emerald green heels from the kitchen. Their small sequins sparking the dim light as they rolled and landed a few feet from where Sherlock was sitting.

That was when she looked at him. Right at him. Sherlock froze as Irene’s features became still for the first time since she had entered her apartment and their eyes locked for the first time in months. Irene blinked, while Sherlock’s heart threw itself into his ribcage. It’s pounding in his ears drowning out the dull racket of the city seeping through the walls. Opening his mouth, he was about to say something when Irene Adler burst out laughing.

The force of the laugh bent her double for a good minute, burying her face in her knees as she cackled . Sherlock pressed his lips together, cocking his head to the side as he watched her.

Her sniggering hysteria lasted the best part of 2 minutes. Even when Irene straitened her legs back out in front of her, she was gasping. But she gathered herself, leaned her head back against the cupboard and rolled her head around to look at him.

“I’ve either had too much, or there was a little something extra in one of those bottles,” she giggled to herself. Sherlock took the risk.

 _“Bottles?”_ he asked.

Irene chuckled and nodded, her frizzled hair bouncing, “All good things come in twos.”

“I think its threes,” he replied.

Irene raised her arms in a shrug, “ _ **C'est la vie**_ , Mr Holmes.”

“La vie.”

She rolled her eyes. A motion she extended to her entire head in her drunkenness. “Ha ha, very funny, _”_ she mumbled. “Soooooo funny.” A smile pulled her lips up as she held his gaze for a moment. Sherlock was about to return it, but she shook her head and looked away. Blinking as if she’d been staring into the sun for too long.

“Mmmmm,” she muttered, dragging her hands down her face so her eyes popped out of their sockets. “No, no, no, no, no,” she mumbled, dropping her hands, “I’m not…” she waved a hand in his direction, squirming and shifting her weight as if the floor beneath her was suddenly composed of jumping jacks.  “You’re the daydreamer-” she winced at her own words, “not _you_ -” she rubbed her eyes, smearing her light green eye shadow and gesturing wildly, “Him- He was- Turning tables now, isn’t it? Something in that wine…Maybe it was the red…”

Sherlock sucked in his breath, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. _Did she think-?_

“He’s not here, you’re just very intoxicated.” Irene chanted to herself, “very intoxicated and tired and a little wired from the- the thing-”

_Yep._

“Which is silly,” she kept whispering to herself, unable to stop her mantra. “Because Mr Holmes is fine and you shouldn’t worry that Doctor Watson’s blog hasn’t…” Sherlock had trouble making out the rest of her slurring ramble, but it finished with, “Because you’re never going to see him again.” She laughed, but it was the first time Sherlock had heard her make a sound so empty since she had arrived home that evening.

Sherlock rose out of his chair. Shrugging his larger coat off onto the table, he crossed the small space between it and the kitchen. Irene’s eyes followed his every movement. Pulling her knees up against her chest as he reached her and crouched down in front of her. The kitchen was so small Sherlock's back was almost pressed against the fridge.

“Mmmmm. So handsome,” she said, her eyes sliding over him. “God, my memory is good. I should respect my subconscious more.” She chuckled to herself, her fingertips tracing patterns into her kneecaps, “Or disrespect it, mmmm.”

Sherlock smiled, his voice a nervous purr, “I never said you wouldn’t see me again, Miss Adler,”

Irene shook her head, her deflating hair flopping against her cheeks with the motion, “You didn’t have to,” she said. She looked away from him, staring pointedly at the space beside her for a few moments.

When she spoke again it was in a disconnected way, something akin to sleep-talking.  “It’s not that I need you.” she hiccuped, “I’m not some infatuated 16 year old in some penny dreadful- neither are you – No one really _needs_ anyone. Love is a delusion like that - I mean, you weren’t even my usual type _in that way-_ ” she laughed, still not looking at him. Though her use of the past tense twisted Sherlock’s insides, making his bones heavier beneath his skin.

“Not that I never liked men- I have- But _you_ weren’t-” she stopped herself, sticking her tongue out and scrunching up her face in a way that suggested that topic was not worth exploring.

“I just-” she began, but she paused, frowning as if her train of thought had been swallowed by a blizzard in the deepest parts of her skull. Sherlock watched her hazel eyes, They were inches from his own and yet they looked a thousand miles away.

“I just want to know that you’re not dead sometimes,” she mumbled. Irene puffed air from her flushed cheeks which seemed to have turned 10 shades darker red since the beginning of her rambling.

Sherlock took a deep breath, he was still crouched directly in front of her. Close enough he could smell the three bottles of wine pouring from her skin, accompanied by the worn aroma of Cocoa Chanel perfume.

“Well then, in that case,” His voice was a tense rumble in his throat. But he reached across the space between them for her hand resting on top of her knees and laid his fingers across them. They were warmer than his own. “Happy birthday, Miss Adler,” he whispered and lifted the back of her palm to brush it against his lips, before returning it to her knees.

It was a long moment. Irene’s body stiffened as she lifted her head and turned it to look at him, before dragging her eyes down to their hands. In fact she stared so long and so hard at their entwined fingers on her knees that the silence between them became as potent as a scream. Sherlock started getting paranoid she could hear each frantic beat of his heart tossing itself into the quiet. 

But slowly, surely, inevitably, Irene lifted her head and when her eyes met his own Sherlock knew she was really _seeing_ him this time because she looked furious. Well, as furious as you can look with cheeks as red as the faded lipstick smudged across your lips. He grinned.

“Mr Holmes,” Irene began in voice that was a rather endearing hybrid of a slur and growl. “How you answer the next question will determine whether you leave this apartment uninjured.”

Clearing his throat, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, observing she had not removed his hand from hers.

“Mm?” he answered, licking his lips.

Irene closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bare witnessing her own words, “Did I just say everything I said out aloud?”

Sherlock remained still, allowing his mouth to do nothing but form a smile. But the moan that escaped Irene Adler told him she did not share in his amusement. Her face turned a scarlet shade that was not associated with the alcohol bubbling in her veins as she banged her head repeatedly on the cupboard behind her.

“If it is any consolation, it is likely there’s enough alcohol in your bloodstream that your short term memory will be effected,” Sherlock offered.

“But you will remember,” groaned Irene, rolling her head forward in a defeated motion, causing the last half her hair to fall out of the no doubt once elegant knot at the back of her head.

 “I always remember you,” he mumbled. Irene stopped her sulky fidgeting and stared at him.

“There,” he said, his heart beating so hard that his teeth felt like they were chattering. “Now we’re even.”

The grin that stretched across her peach colored cheeks seemed to spread through her. Right down to her bare toes wiggling in front of him as she giggled. The sound washed over Sherlock, as warm as the sunlight absent from the night. Pure emotion unfiltered and unchecked by her lack of sobriety.

Sherlock secretly admired people who could inebriate themselves with alcohol so freely. Envied the way they enjoyed a brand of intoxication that turned their emotions into earthquakes. How they didn’t fear the loss of their sense, or control.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

Irene hiccuped, “Why are we on the floor?”

He laughed, “Because you sat on the floor, Miss Adler.” Irene’s nod indicated that this information was satisfactory.

“Well then, why are we still on the floor?”

Halfhearted tutting preceded Sherlock’s smile as he secured the arm attached to Irene’s hand he’d been holding and pulled her with him to their feet. When she let go of his hand it seemed for a brief moment that Irene was steady, but opening her mouth to snigger upset the fragile balance she’d achieved. Irene began to stumble forward, but Sherlock caught her, swinging her up into his arms with a sigh.

“Okay,” he said. “You need to sleep that off.”

“Put me down,” she mumbled, letting her head lull onto his chest. “I can walk.”

“Remind me why I saved your life?” mused Sherlock as he started heading in the direction of her bedroom. There was only one down a short hallway.

“Apparently so you can come wish me happy birthday,” Irene muttered, matching his sarcasm. Sherlock didn’t catch the way she finished that sentence, but it was something along the lines of ‘didn’t even get me anything’ and ‘all for nothing, really'

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned into Irene’s bedroom. It was small like every other room in the place, other than the kitchen and living area that made up one large room. A single tall window cluttered the room with shadows, while a plain bed took up most of the space against an alarmingly purple wall. There was a night stand with an alarm clock flashing that it was almost 4am to the right of her pillows. The only other thing in the room was a large suitcase, bursting over its brim with clothes and whatever contraband they hid.

“This isn’t really your apartment,” Sherlock stated.

“Technically, I’m house sitting,” Irene hiccuped again as Sherlock set her gently down onto her bed. “A good woman always tell their ex where they hide their spare keys,” she laughed, crawling under her sheets and laying her head on the pillow. “She’s in the Bahamas.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh at the fact she was still wearing that ridiculous black dress. The skirt of it billowing black tulle against the light sheets, while her makeup smeared the pale pink pillows with faint red and green splotches. Her hair, now entirely burst from its knot, stuck to her flushed face as she nestled herself over dramatically into a sleeping position.

Maybe it was the fact that he had not slept for 26 hours, or because he still hadn’t asked her what he came to ask her. Maybe it was because he had secretly thought, like she had, that they would never see each other again. Or perhaps it was because he knew she wouldn’t remember with all that wine. But Sherlock Holmes, very quietly kicked off his shoes and slipped into bed beside her without a second thought.

Blood rushed away from his toes, making him aware of every tingling nerve in his body and he wondered how long he had been upright for. Lying on his back on top of the sheets, he felt the mattress move as Irene rolled over to face him. Blowing a strand of hair off her from her face, she didn’t say anything for a moment. 

“I’m assuming you don’t have a 9 to 5 job to attend to in the morning.” It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. It wasn’t even a question. Irene just laughed at him. _Such a giggly drunk,_ he thought with enough unintended fondness that he had the urge to slap himself.

But Irene spluttered indignantly, “And what makes you think this isn’t a job?”

“What kind of job requires the consumption of 3 bottles of wine?”

“Politics,” she grinned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but she flourished her fingers at his confusion. “Keep your ear the ground, you’ll hear about it soon enough, I suspect.” Her voice was excited. Proud. Sherlock’s jaw clenched tighter around his question.

“How are the Watsons?” she asked, flipping herself onto her back so her shoulder brushed his.

“Fine. The three of them are fine.”

“Miss Hooper?” She prodded, making a popping sound on the ‘p’.

“I suspect she’s dating Inspector Lestrade, but they delude themselves with secrecy.”

Irene sniggered, “That’s sweet.”

“Is it?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She asked it in a way that made Sherlock unsure whether it was rhetorical.

“What sort of job in politics requires the 3 bottles of red wine?”

“A disruptive one, Mr Holmes,” giggled Irene. She wasn’t going to tell him, whatever it was. In all likelihood she couldn’t.

They lay there together in the semi-darkness for a few minutes. Shoulders touching. Allowing the muffled roar of the traffic in the main street below them to fill the silence. Sherlock almost wondered if he could sleep, but his unspoken question tapped at the surface of his mind like the dull ticking of a clock.

“Mmm hmm mm,” Irene chuckled, the bed vibrated beneath Sherlock with the motion of it. Propping herself up on her elbow, she looked down at him. The sheets rolling off her shoulders as she rested her head in her hand and said, her voice low, “Is this the part where you take advantage of me in my drunken state and take me in every way you’ve ever imagined, Mr Holmes?” Her voice was slurred with as much mockery as it was alcohol, but it was Sherlock’s turn to snort.

“What possible advantage would you serve me drunk, Miss Adler?” he asked, frowning up at her. Her bemused giggles flooded over him in the dark, her apple scented waves brushing his cheek as she plonked herself back down beside him.

“An unimportant one,” she answered, curling her body onto its side, as if to look at him. But her eyes were closed when Sherlock snatched a glance at her and something about that made Sherlock feel proud.

A smile teased the edges of Sherlock’s burning cheeks and he turned his own body to face her. Keeping as much space between them as he dared, though the sheets covering her separated them regardless.

“Miss Adler?” Sherlock whispered. Their faces were so close, a few strands of her frazzled hair tickled his nose on the pillow. Her eyes fluttered open, brow furrowing at the sudden proximity of his face to her own.

“Mm, Mr Holmes?” she mumbled, sleepily.

“What did it feel like?”

Irene’s frown was so deep Sherlock could see the lines of her forehead through her tangles of hair.

“What did what feel like?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “What did it feel like when you knew you were about to die?” Even as he said it aloud, Sherlock wanted to kick himself for asking something that sounded so damn childish.

Lifting her head off the pillow so her tousled hair fell away from her face, Irene Adler narrowed her eyes to survey him. The look was so ferocious, so suspicious, he might have just announced he had a bomb beneath his shirt.

“Why?” 

“Just curious.”

“Why?” she growled.

“Because I never asked you before.”

“So, why now?”

“Miss Adler-”

“Sherlock-”

“Please, just tell me,” she was still looking down at him and his voice sounded smaller than he expected in the dimly lit air between their faces. “Please?” he repeated. Irene stared at him. The intensity of her glare lasted so long, he almost forgot she was drunk.

But, after a few minutes in which Irene sighed a sigh that might have belonged to the moon, it seemed so far away, she tossed herself back down onto her back. Her eyes wandered the ceiling while his own remained with her, still facing her with his entire body.

“You know, Mr Holmes, pillow talk is usually less morbid,” she mused. Sherlock said nothing, listening to her think. The way her breathing grew quieter, her body tensed and all at once she was still. The intoxication of the alcohol replaced by the concentration of clutching for buried memories.

“The first time, or the last?”

“How many are there?” he asked.

She answered with a chuckle, “Many more than you could ever have saved me from, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And the one I did?”

“One of the closer shaves I’ve ever had, I’ll admit.”

“Miss Adler.”

She sighed, ruffling a few strands of her hair with the force of it. Holding his own breath, every muscle he had tightened, as if he was preparing to sprint from her words.

“It’s terrifying,” she said finally, her voice oddly strained, “that sounds cliché, I know. But there’s a trick.”

Sherlock frowned, “to what?” he asked.

“Death is only frightening because everyone,” she waved her hand vaguely above her head as if she was drawing, “fools themselves into thinking that death is not a choice.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t tell me, ‘death is a fact and you can’t change-’””

She reached her arm across and rested 3 poorly aimed fingers over his nose, “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m talking.”

“Death is a fact, yes. But the circumstance is not. Not everyone is beheaded, stabbed, or poisoned, or eaten, or throws themselves from hospitals,” she guffawed at her own words for a minute before continuing, “Some people die in their sleep, or their hearts break, or their livers fail. But it is exceedingly rare that anyone dies from a circumstance they could not control somewhere, somehow…if only they knew…” she trailed off for a moment.  “Our lives are only ever owned by ourselves. The trick is remembering that you own your death too.” She tapped his nose before finally retracting her hand from his face.

“Beautiful,” said Sherlock.

“Thank you.”

“Beautiful generalization in which you avoided my original question entirely.”

Moaning, Irene slapped the bed either side of her with her hands, “Yeah well, you didn’t even buy me a birthday present-” she huffed, folding her arms over the bare skin of her chest exposed by the low plunging neckline of her dress.

“What did it feel like when you thought you were about to die?” he repeated.

“You could’ve at least got me a card.”

“Miss Adler-”

“Maybe some flowers-? A scented candle? Every girl loves a new handgun. I lost mine. Never bet against a dwarf who’s never lost at Russian Roulette, Mr Holmes. She-”

“Irene,” Sherlock didn’t raised his voice at all, but something in it pulled her head around to look at him. Pressing her lips together into a thin line, he heard her swallow. Sherlock listened to the rustling of sheets as she shifted herself onto her side to face him again.

Their bodies were perfectly parallel. Without the sliver of empty sheets Sherlock maintained between them, they might have been touching. Each part of her to each part of him. Sherlock swallowed. Thankful that the traffic in the street below was loud enough mask the pounding of his heart, remaining motionless as Irene Adler reached over the space between them to trail two fingers down his hairline.

“Look at you, Mr Holmes. Always ready to run, pushing it all down. Always the distraction from yourself,” she chuckled. But it was a sound that felt darker than even the room.

“That moment, it will destroy you- more than death,” she whispered, still tracing his hairline with her fingertips, “Because there’s nowhere left to run. You’ll face yourself. Every moment you’ve been afraid. All the times you were wrong. All the love you ever felt and wished you hadn’t. All the love you realized you had, but ran from. It will fill you up until that moment before you…” she trailed off, hiccuping. “Until the next moment separates you from all those moments and all the ones you could’ve had. Because in that moment, you can let everything matter.” Her laugh was as soft as the tips of her fingers running along his jawline as she continued to whisper.

“Be careful if you survive because _that_ is what changes you.” Sherlock hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes while she had been speaking until he opened them to meet hers. “But I think you already know that.” Her fingers traced down to hover over his chest, lingering over the exact place where Mary’s bullet had found it’s mark before returning them to his cheek. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Letting everything matter,” he echoed. Warmth swallowed his every nerve, spreading from her fingertips to his chest and down to his toes.

“He’s not dead yet, is he?” Irene whispered.

Sherlock swallowed, “Would I be here if he wasn’t?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock edged his face closer to hers so the red wine on her words filled his nostrils and his curls were a breath from her forehead.

 “Sorry, I didn’t get you a birthday present,” he breathed after a moment. His breath disturbing the few strands of her fallen hair on her face.

“Just don’t die,” she yawned, closing her eyes. “Give me a damn good one next year.”

Chuckling, he reached up to take her hand resting on his cheek and placed it in the space between them. Holding it there for a moment. Not quite against his chest or quite against hers.

“You’ll have to be here for me to hold up that bargain.”

“You’ll find me,” mumbled Irene.

 _Not always,_ he thought.

“I see your injuries healed well,” he whispered.

“Mmmm. Moran left me a lovely scar though.”

“Know the feeling,” muttered Sherlock.

“Swimsuit season will be a nightmare.”

 “We’re in Tokyo in the middle of winter, Miss Adler.”

“And thank God for that,” she muttered, her words thick and dripping with sleep. “And thank your brother for the plane ticket. I like it here.”

Sherlock smiled, “I’m sure he’ll delight in that information.”

Irene Adler said something in response to that. But her words were so muffled with drunkenness and drowsiness, Sherlock missed them entirely. The screeching buzz of Tokyo’s pre-dawn traffic engulfed the silence once more.

Snatches of shouting floated up through Irene Adler’s ajar window, punctuated by the rumbling of garage doors, miscellaneous road rage and the ghosts of various spices lurking in the smog. The air in the room itself took on a lilac hue as the night that surrounded them began to dissolve into the darker light of dawn.

But a hurricane could have been dismantling the fabric of the world beyond her apartment walls. The planet could shatter back into the big bang and back into nothing and Sherlock would not feel or hear it. He was slipping, sinking, letting the tides of exhaustion he’d been resisting flooding his mind until the sound of breathing drowned his ears. Whether it was her's or his own was a distinction he did not care to make.

And, with a muffled, “Goodnight Mr Sherlock Holmes,” and the feeble mumbling of agreement, Sherlock Holmes let his exhaustion carry him off asleep with Irene Adler’s body curled toward his and his toward hers. Laying side by side in the dim with their hands entwined between them like children huddling against the darkest pages of their fairytale.

 

***

The thick afternoon sunlight sidling through Irene Adler’s bedroom window made her wince. Pulling her sheets up to shield her face from such a blinding monstrosity, she had every intention of returning to her scattered dreams. But the alcohol in her stomach had other ideas. Head pounding, insides clenching, Irene hurled herself out of bed. The back of her throat feeling like fire as she stumbled across the hall and into the bathroom.

But she managed to land in front of the toilet just in time. There wasn’t much. Most of it was just yellow coloured bile that tasted like oranges. Panting, Irene rested her head on the toilet bowl. The metal was cool against her cheek and she even considered just going back to sleep here. _Nope._ Her stomach churned at the very thought and Irene only just pushed her mop of hair away from the line of fire.

There were few more unpleasant feelings then dry wrenching after projectile vomiting. Dying, perhaps?

Something like Deja vu twisted at her insides. Irene prepared herself for another round.

But after a few minutes of gulping down the cool air-conditioned air of the bathroom, Irene peeled her face off the rim of the toilet seat. Why people called it feeling ‘lightheaded’ when your brain felt like dumbbell in your skull she’d never know. Her fingers clutched the handles of her bathroom vanity like stair railings as she pulled herself to her feet.

Her bedraggled reflection in the vanity mirror might have made her laugh if she didn’t fear the contents of her stomach putting in a 5th appearance.

Lipstick smeared up her lip on one side of her face. Faint remains of green eye shadow dusted her eyebrows, while the state of her eyeliner combined with her pale clammy features to made her look positively skeletal. She had one earring missing and her hair was more of a hair don’t than a hair do. Irene was rather glad that Meena was in the Bahamas. Sure, she loved dishing out punishments, but she wasn’t sure anyone deserved to see her like this.

Deja vu fluttered in her empty stomach again, as if she was saying something she’d said before, or a dream was trying to claw its way out of her subconscious. Irene shook her head.

“Stopping at two bottles next time,” she croaked at her reflection, her throat stinging with the effort of each word. Reaching a hand up, Irene began tugging at the pins buried in the knots of her hair.

Swearing under her breath, she freed six of them, tossing them onto the sink before pulling the straps of her dress off and pushing the dress down off her torso. The cool air on her naked body soothed the banging in her skull for a few seconds. Irene closed her eyes and inhaled it, reaching automatically to twist the hot water tap in the shower to her right.

Warm steam licked at her cheeks and she opened her eyes, removing a final stray hair pin and placing it on the sink.

Irene froze.

There was a glass of water and two aspirin sitting on the vanity. She looked over her shoulder, but Meena’s bathroom was so small she’d have to be absurdly hungover for someone to slip by her in the last 5 minutes.

Frowning, she glared at the small white pills. Try as she might, Irene couldn’t remember leaving those out for herself. But then, she couldn’t really remember the last 10 hours period. It was all a scandalous slur of city lights that had left her with the aftertaste of orange juice and unexpected dreams about…

Irene rubbed her temple, took the aspirin and hopped into the shower. Clearly her drunk self was more considerate than she expected and that was that.

After her shower had restored her to something that looked human, albeit one with a ghastly headache, Irene slipped into her robe and headed out into the kitchen. An empty juice carton lay a foot from the bin. Irene rolled her eyes at the evidence of her drunken escapade and threw it into the trash, cursing her drunk self for not considering that she may have wanted juice for breakfast at five in the afternoon.

Sighing, she opened the fridge - only to find a new identical carton staring back at her.

Grabbing it, she straightened up, frowning between it and its empty twin she had just disposed of laying in the small bin by her bare feet. Irene was certain there had been only one carton, but all that wine had no doubt fermented her memory somewhat. Shrugging, she removed the lid and took a swig. The remote to the small television mounted in the wall sat on the bench beside the fridge. Irene flicked it on.

A pretty Japanese woman named Mamoka read the evening news headlines. The English translation flashed below her in less attractive font.

_Breaking news: Notorious crime boss, Haruki Sotu, infamous for coordinating the illegal trafficking of sex slaves in underground Tokyo, has been arrested this morning after he foolishly emailed police his ledgers and current address. Sotu appeared to be intoxicated when police found him hanging upside down and naked in his apartment, claiming he had been tricked once police removed the gag from his mouth. With Sotu’s Ledger and Sotu in custody, police are currently carrying out operations to end the suffering of women in Tokyo’s major trafficking ring._

Chuckling, Irene turned the television off. However bad her headache was, Sotu’s was certainly worse.  _Good._ She gulped down another mouthful of juice and flopped down into one of the chairs that surrounded Meena’s little kitchen table.

Irene pushed her seat away so violently that she almost lost her balance as she scrambled to her feet.

Sitting on the table was a small handful of roses, a gun and an envelope. The four roses were a stunning blood red. The gun, a handgun, sat in a box. It was brand new like the carton of juice she had dropped, pooling around her toes, squelching under her feet as she stepped forward to trail her fingers over the handle.

It was a little gun, silver and semi-automatic. The box it was sitting in, Irene noted, was titanium. An expensive ally in the battle against airport bag scans.

She had been needing a new one for weeks. Having lost hers deliberately in a bet to get information on Sotu, she highly doubted his thugs had left it as a threat. There were many customs she was not yet used to in Japan, though Irene doubted leaving flowers for the woman who destroyed your empire was one of them. But these were strange and dangerous people.

The scent of the roses filled her nostrils as she reached for the envelope with trembling hands. Heart hammering, fingers fumbling, she tore at the lip, pulled out its contents and frowned.

It was a birthday card. Irene recognized the Kanji from countless newsagents she’d walked by in the last few months. She glanced around the apartment, half expecting Meena to jump out with a “surprise!” or something ridiculous. But Meena was still on holidays and as far as Irene knew no one else in Tokyo would have known it had been her birthday yesterday. She was dead and gone to the world, after all. The pounding of her heart matched the pounding in her head as she opened the card.

One glance at the scrawl within and Irene could have hit herself for being so thick. A grin danced across her cheeks that was so wide her face stung. Giggling, she felt her restless sub-conscious relax and she fell back in her chair, tracing her fingers over the message.

Beneath the cut copy birthday greeting slapped in the middle of the card, written in a rushed scribble of strawberry colored ink were the words:

_Give them hell. – S.H._

_xxx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback always welcome :) I always said if I wrote a sequel to TPoR it would center on Irene cos that story was about her. This fic is partly brought to you by me being unable to sleep the night I turned 21 about a week ago and me being the sober friend at parties. Also sponsored by me getting kinda loving the idea that actually sleeping together is just as awesome the humpy version of sleeping together.
> 
> Love, Merry xo
> 
> Send me prompts or have a chat @letzplaymurder.tumblr.com


	17. The Homeless Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mary Watson arrives at 221b, the last thing she expected was to find Irene Adler napping on Sherlock's sofa. While Baker Street's boys are out on a case, what will the women make of each other? And indeed, what will they make of the case...
> 
> (Original prompt from caged-nightingale on tumblr: Would you pls write a fic where Sherlock and John come back from a case to see Irene and Marry, sitting in the boys' chairs, getting along or chitchatting about their Baker's street boys?)

“Sherlock’s really struggling with this case, love. I’m so sorry. He’s already punched a police officer.”

“Again?” Mary cleared her throat, sighing. “Where’s Ella?”

“She’s downstairs with Mrs Hudson. But Sherlock pushed me out of 221b so fast I left her baby bag by the door. Reckon you can go grab it?”

“Oooh,” Mary teased. “It will cost you.”

“Oh, yeah?” John asked as she pulled the car over to park in front of 221b. Two steps ahead of him.

“Yeah, order Chinese tonight,” Mary laughed, “I’ve been craving dumplings.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mrs Watson,” John said as Mary got out of the car and pressed the phone to her ear. She was about to reply when-

“For God’s sake-!” Sherlock groaned in the background. “You already married her and have a child with her. Stop flirting, get over here and look at this!”

John sighed, “Gotta go. Kiss Ella for me and don’t forget the bag.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary chuckled as she hung up the phone and pocketed it.

After a second or two of foraging through her purse, she located her spare key to Baker Street, pushed open the door and stepped inside. Her daughters muffled cries greeted her ears almost instantly, followed suit by a frazzled Mrs Hudson poking her head out of her apartment door, sporting Mary’s distressed baby daughter on one arm.

“Mary, dear!” she gasped, relief etched in every line of her face. “John had to go help Sherlock and he left El-”

“It’s alright, Mrs Hudson,” Mary smiled. “John called me. She’s probably hungry. I’ll just pop upstairs and grab her food.”

Mrs Hudson nodded and shuffled back inside, shushing Ella’s sobs on every other step. Taking the stairs two at a time, Mary already had her key out as she reached 221b’s door. Within 30 seconds, she had it open and was looking around for Ella’s bright blue baby bag. She spotted it on the floor behind Sherlock’s chair. Crossing the room in 3 strides, she picked it up and was making sure Ella had food in their when she dropped it and jumped back, fingers running to clasp the gun concealed in her coat pocket.

“Oh my go-!”

“Are you going to shoot me, Mrs Watson?” The woman yawned, sitting up on Sherlock’s sofa and smirking. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

Mary stared at her, her face was familiar, a niggling in the back of her mind. Her fingers wrapped tighter around her pistol, but she left it undrawn. The woman wasn’t armed. There were dark circles under her eyes and her shorter hair was tangled where she’d slept on it against the arm of the sofa.

“How do you know who I am?” Mary asked. The woman’s lips curled into a smile. _Come on, come on where had she seen her before?_

“You and Doctor Watson looked _adorable_ in your wedding photos.” Her smirk remained as she stretched her arms upwards.

“Irene,” Mary said slowly. “Irene Adler.”  

Irene Adler flashed a smile at the sound of her own name. But Mary still kept a firm hand wrapped around the gun in her pocket.

“I’m afraid so,” Irene purred, lowering her upstretched arms. “Look, if you’re not going to shoot me yet I need to go to the bathroom so if you don’t mind-”

A blanket slipped off Irene Adler as she got up and headed for the bathroom, the floorboards creaking under her bare feet as she closed the door behind her. Mary looked over her shoulder and out the apartment door she’d left open. _Did Mrs Hudson know there was a world class criminal napping in Sherlock’s apartment, while Mary’s own daughter was downstairs?_ Then again, she wasn’t really in the position to assume the worst motives of World Class criminals.

The toilet flushing accompanied Irene Adler’s exit from Sherlock’s bathroom. Her hair was neater and she was now wearing a navy blue blazer over the white shirt and black jeans. But without even looking sideways at Mary, Irene passed her into the kitchen. As Mary watched, she opened Sherlock's fridge and stared dismally into its’ depths.

“Does he really just live off fingernails?” Irene muttered, straightening up and closing the fridge door with a sigh.

“What are you doing here?” Mary asked.

“Starving apparently,” Irene groaned.

“John told me you were dead.”

“Oh dear,” Irene tutted, looking down at herself with mock surprise. “Am I not?” She chuckled at Mary’s glare, “You’re not going to shoot me too now, are you?”

Mary frowned, “Sherlock told _you_ -?”

“Drooling from a hospital bed, yes.” Irene chirped, but her words were frosted with ice.

Mary stood her ground, “I really could shoot you too, you know.”

Irene laughed, “Yes. But you won’t.”

“No?”

“You haven’t even drawn your gun,” Irene shrugged, plucking an apple from the fruit bowl before leaning over the counter to take a bite.

“Sherlock forgave me for that. But I doubt that would surprise _you_.”

Irene chuckled through a mouthful of apple, “Don’t you have a squealing offspring to attend to?”

Mary scowled at her, “Nice try. Sherlock saved your life, didn’t he?”

Irene sighed as if she was bored, “Your point?”

Mary felt the corners of her mouth jerk up, “No doubt you can tell me all about Sherlock’s capacity for forgiveness.”

“Well, I’d hardly be taking a nap on his sofa if I were dead.” The ghost of a blush flickered in Irene’s cheeks. She cleared her throat, “That would be rather disturbing.” Mary pressed her lips together as Irene Adler became very fascinated in eating her apple.

“You know, your husband didn’t catch on so quickly,” Irene shot at her, after a pause.

“No. But he had theories. So did a lot of people who comment on his blog, actually.”

Irene looked up, demolishing the last of the apple, “Anything interesting?”

Mary shrugged. “That depends,” she was careful to keep her voice level. “Do you and Sherlock have any children you’re secretly raising?”

Half eaten apple flew from Irene Adler’s lips, her hand scrambling upwards to cover her mouth two seconds too late. But it only half covered the look of pure horror widening her eyes.

“Sorry to expose you like that,” Mary teased, her voice soaked head to toe in sarcasm as Irene lowered her hand away from her mouth. “But I bet you feel a lot better now your secret’s out,” Mary winked at her, leaning over the bench so they were standing opposite one another.

“Children?” Irene’s splutter oozed with disgust. “With _Sherlock?”_ She actually laughed, “When would I even-? Dear me, people have tiny minds. As if the best and only way for anyone to express affection is infecting the world with their offspring. How dull.” She tossed the apple core into the bin behind her.

“Thanks,” Mary retorted. But Irene continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Mary wondered if she realised she’d said ‘affections’.

“Sherlock is far too-” Irene stopped, musing more to herself than Mary, she sniggered. “Not to mention uninterested in the activity all together,” muttered Irene.

Mary blinked, “You mean- you and him-?” But she shut up at Irene’s glare.

After a few gruelling minutes, it was Ella’s sobs that shattered the stony silence between them.

“Shit,” muttered Mary, rushing to gather up Ella’s baby bag. “That’ll be my offspring I’ve infected the world with. Be right back.”

Irene looked like she was going to protest about something. But Mary had ducked out the door and headed downstairs to her daughter before she could.

 

***

Irene Adler rubbed her eyes against her knuckles. _Stupid jetlag. Think before you open your mouth._ Dragging her hands down her face, she returned to the sofa and collapsed on top of the twisted and tangles of the  blanket that had been on top of her when she woke. Funny. She didn’t remember having one when she dozed off.

The case files Sherlock had been complaining about before she had fallen asleep lay scattered in the rays of afternoon sun puncturing the shadows through 221b’s tall window. The sun glinting off the glossed photos of a thin homeless woman Sherlock had said was his client, distorting her face and masking the other homeless man that sat behind her.

Blinking in the afternoon light, Irene tried not to think about the delicious amount of sleep she’d be having if she was in her apartment in New York, tried not to think about how it was past midnight there, and tried not to think about her own bed.

“Hey,”

Irene sat bolt upright. Jerking her head up, she winced at the click in her neck before springing to her feet.

“Stand down, sleepy head. Told you I’d be back,” said Mrs Watson, settling herself into Doctor Watson’s chair.

Irene fell back down onto the sofa, “If Sherlock knows you’re with me, he won’t be very happy.”

“Because he’s a bundle of joy at the best of times,” replied Mary. “You don’t seem very worried.”

Irene shrugged, failing to stifle a yawn, “You’re not Jim Moriarty, or MI6 so-”

“MI6?”

_Shut up. Stupid Jetlag._

“Or any other organisation hell bent on having my head,” Irene finished, a little too quickly. Mrs Watson’s eyes narrowed.

“I used to be MI6,” she said.

Irene waved a hand at her tone, “Not for years.”

“You remember me, then?”

Irene leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes, “Interpol’s most wanted was my equivalent of eHarmony.  I made a habit of…acquainting myself with any particularly attractive assassins hired by associates of my difficult clients.”

“I’m flattered,” said Mrs Watson.

Irene could feel the fuzziness of sleep dissolving the edges of her brain and she was all but ready to give in to it when an infant’s cry snapped her head upright again.

“Sorry,” Mrs Watson muttered, rocking her baby daughter in her arms. Irene hadn’t even noticed the baby when she had come back into the room. Eyeing the squirming mass, Irene frowned.

“I really do not require company, Mrs Watson, if you have other places to be.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “Besides, you were asleep when I walked in. Sherlock’s not here. Clearly you’re jetlagged and running from something. I’ll keep watch while you rest.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at her, “You don’t owe me a favour.”

“Nope,” Mary shrugged, still rocking her snoozing child.

“Then why would you help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The way she said that, a beat off rhetorical, like she had a curious hope Irene would give her a reason. “You know,” Mrs Watson continued. “You should probably try and stay awake, if you’re jetlagged. It’s only 2pm.”

“Easier said than done after 48 hours without sleep, I’m afraid.”

Mary nodded at the case files on the coffee table between them, “What’s the case?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m assuming Sherlock would have mentioned it to you.”

“If by mention, you mean complain then yes.”

“Well?”

Irene sat forward, sighing, puffing air from her cheeks to blow way some stray hairs on her face before resting her elbows on her knees and surveying the case files scattered in front of her. Mrs Watson wasn’t wrong. She did need to stay awake if she was going convince Sherlock to help her.

“This woman,” Irene pulled one of the glossy photos towards her and held it up to Mary. “I know her, she was married to one of my clients. Her name is Viola.” Biting her lip, Irene forced her sleep deprived brain to recall what Sherlock said about her. “She’s the sole heir to an estate up North and her father just died suddenly of a heart attack yesterday.”

“So, she’s being framed?”

“No. She did it.”

“Okay,” Mrs Watson brow furrowed. Irene searched through the photos and articles until she found the article she was looking for.

“The family fortune of which she would have received all in the event of her father’s death was kept in the Vaults of the London Bank.”

“Don’t tell me,” Mrs Watson’s gasp was a mockery of shock, “it’s been stolen?” 

 Irene held up the article from that morning’s paper that read the headline _5 MILLION DOLLARS OF DIAMONDS DO A DISAPPEARING ACT,_ in answer.

Mary nodded, “Naturally,” she said. “So, where’s the case?”

Irene smiled, “Viola murdered her father. But she didn’t take the money.”

“How does Sherlock know that?”

“Because she’s a member of his homeless network. Has been for years.”

“She might have gotten a bit sick of being a vagrant?” Mary suggested. “So she cuts dad out of the picture and takes his money.”

“She went off the grid because she didn’t want any materialistic temptations,” Irene rolled her eyes. “Killed her father because he liked small children to attend to his less tasteful inclinations. At any rate, she wouldn’t consult Sherlock if she had taken the money. This woman is eccentric, but she’s no fool.”

“So she’s come to Sherlock because she’d rather go to prison for murder then robbery?” Mary almost sniggered.

Irene shook her head, “Viola’s father was one of the wealthiest white males in the UK, did you hear about a murder of someone like that in the last few days?”

Mary bit her tongue, thinking back on the news headlines for the last few days, “No, actually. Which is odd for a rich asshole white bloke.”

Irene held up the newspaper clipping. Mary leaned forward to read it, squinting at the fine print.

“Hewitt Longworth dies suddenly of heart attack at age 72,” Mary read aloud. “Police suspect no foul play.” She looked up at Irene, eyebrow raised. “Viola pulled off the perfect murder.”

Irene nodded, “Potassium poisoning is best for feigning heart attacks, I find.”

“Only need a few milligrams,” Mary agreed. “Especially, if the victim has history. Either that or adrenaline overdose, works just as well.”

“Wouldn’t that look odd on a biopsy?” Irene asked.

“Nah,” answered Mary, “Not if you buy the right kind of synthetic dose. There are sellers here in London.”

“Hmm,” Irene considered this for a moment. “Where?”

“Whitechapel”

“Thank you,”

“No problem,” Still holding her sleeping baby, Mary got up, walked around John’s chair and headed down the hallway. From the corner of her eye, Irene saw her vanish into Doctor Watson’s old bedroom. When she returned, her offspring was absent from her arms. Irene stared at her.

“Oh,” Mary said, seeing the look on Irene’s face. “John put a cot in his old room for when Sherlock has to babysit.”

“Sherlock agrees to babysit?” Irene asked, each syllable Irene spoke drowned in disbelief.

“It’s remarkable what Sherlock will agree to these days- with Moriarty supposedly back.”

The knot in her stomach she had been ignoring uncoiled itself ever so slightly, but it still clamped down on Irene’s insides. The tug of the weight of what she hadn’t had the chance to ask him yet.

Shaking her head, Irene gestured back down at the case files, while Mary stood to her left looking over her shoulder at the photos, “Basically, Viola pulled off the perfect murder of her paedophilic father which has been inconveniently overshadowed by the perfect bank robbery of his money, but in the absence of a suspect for either, the police are looking at the sole heir to the family fortune,” Irene concluded, scratching her head and yawning.

“And Sherlock’s gone to see if he can find a flaw in the perfect bank robbery, no doubt,” Mary said.

Irene nodded, letting her head lull into her hand and propping it up with her elbow against her knee. The view of the photo of Viola being quickly obscured by the inside of her eyelids.

“Who’s that?” Mary asked. The sound of her voice pulling up Irene’s eyelids.

“Who?”

“The man in the photo behind Viola,” Irene picked up the photo of Viola she had been looking at when Mary had gone downstairs. Picking it up, she squinted at the dark photo. Viola was filthy,  sitting on a bench with the grey slosh of the Thames blurring  behind her and between her and the colourless river was an equally as bedraggled looking man except-

“He’s wearing a watch,” Irene frowned, passing the photo up to Mary for a second opinion. Her own eyes feeling too heavy in her skull to completely trust. 

“A gold watch,” Mary confirmed.

“Could be a knock off?” Irene suggested.

“If you were homeless, would you waste money on knock off Gucci?

Irene cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow in answer.

“Who took this photo?” Mary asked. “Sherlock doesn’t usually take photos.”

Irene messaged her temple with her fingertips as if she could coax out the memory of Sherlock’s ramblings.

“A Private Eye hired by the bank to follow her. Sherlock stole the photos,” said Irene in a voice so strained it almost sounded like a question, glaring at the man behind Viola in the photo. “Wait,” Frowning, Irene got up, walked over to Sherlock’s desk and unearthed his laptop from beneath piles of news articles. Within a minute her fingers danced across the keys, typing in Sherlock’s password before loading up Interpol’s recent sightings list. Mary walked over to look over her shoulder.

“See anyone familiar?” Irene asked.

Mary looked between the photo in her hands and the photos and names Irene scrolled past until-

“Him!” Irene said triumphantly, almost slamming Sherlock’s laptop down onto his desk to point at the screen. “Daniel Logan. Interpol’s most wanted heist man. Only known man to successfully get away with stealing from the safety deposit boxes of Switzerlands’ National Bank.”

“And look where his last unconfirmed sighting was,” Mary smiled.

“The Thames,” Irene finished her thought. They were both smiling now.

“Come on,” Mary said. “If we’re quick we can probably still find him.”

Irene’s eyes widened, “You seriously think he’ll still be in London after pulling off the perfect bank robbery?”

Mary held up the photo of Viola and Daniel, her eyes alight with anticipation which Irene could only meet with a frown until-

“Oh,” Irene almost gasped.

“Oh,” Mary echoed excitedly, shoving the photo in Irene’s hands and turning on her heel to dash downstairs. Her voice floated up the stairwell, “Mrs Hudson, would you mind watching Ella for another half hour while I run some errands?”

“Not at all, dear. I didn’t realize you were still here!”

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson.”

Resisting the urge to groan, Irene grabbed her shoes, sunglasses and her phone and slipped quietly downstairs into Mary’s car before Mrs Hudson could see.

***

“You coming?”

Irene bit her lip, ensuring her sunglasses were on before she hopped out of Mary’s car a block from Millennium Bridge. Even though she couldn’t see for the sunglasses, Mary was 100% sure Miss Adler was glowering at her.

“Since you didn’t give me a choice, yes,” Irene retorted.

“No, I didn’t, did I?” chirped Mary. “Nothing will happen to you out here. Don’t worry.”

Irene sighed, “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The women walked together along the Thames. Cold air brushing their faces as they wove their way in and out of crowds, couples and the street clowns adding their noise to the world. Irene kept her head bowed low until the crowd thinned out. They kept walking, the sloshing brown mass of water following them as they walked further and further down. Mary grabbed Irene’s arm.

“There-” she hissed. Irene peered over the rim of her sunglasses at where Mary was pointing. The homeless woman was about Irene’s age. There was dirt on her face and a bruise smudging her forehead, not quite hidden by the mass of straw sticking out of her head that could only be her hair. She was sitting with her legs outstretched and her back against the railing that stood between them and the brown swirling beast of the Thames. Mary looked at Irene who nodded and together they approached her.

“Hello, Viola,” Irene kept her voice low.

“Spare change, Miss?”

“Oh, I don’t think you need it,” Mary said as Irene crouched down so her and Viola were eye level.

“I do, Miss.”

“Why beg for change when you’ve got diamonds?” Irene drawled. Viola’s eyes flashed.

“The fuck you think you are, Irene Adler?” Viola spat beside her. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Irene rolled her eyes, “Where’s Daniel, Viola? Is he meeting you here?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, do I?”

“We know the police are looking for you, Viola. We know you made a deal with Daniel Logan to steal your father’s diamonds.”

“Now, why would I do that? I’m his sole heir,” she sneered.

“Because you aren’t,” Mary said, crouching down on Viola’s other side. “He would have practically written you out of the will when you changed lifestyles.”

“But now you've decided being homeless wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. So you kill him anyway, induce a heart attack. Make a deal with the world’s best bank robber to take back your heritage you threw away in the first place,” Irene finished.

“My father was repulsive!”

“With a smell like yours, I wouldn’t be name calling,” warned Mary.

“He did more than just call me names,” Viola snapped.

“So, you kill him?” asked Irene.

“Don’t get high all high and mighty with me you murderous slut,” hissed Viola. Mary cocked her gun in her pocket so the three of them could hear it. After a pause as pungent as a pulse, it was Irene who spoke.

“Why hire Sherlock Holmes?”

Viola shrugged, “Like you said, I’m already homeless and estranged. He’s just one less reason for the police to suspect me,” she licked her lips and nodded at Irene. “But it looks like I’m not the only one who made him my bitch.”

Before Mary could say anything, Irene reached over and slapped the grin off Viola’s face.

 Viola cackled, licking the blood off her lip. “Think I don’t hear the whispers?” she jeered at Irene. “You’re a dead man walking.”

“You have got that right,” drawled a Swiss accent. Mary stiffened as the cool barrel of a gun was pressed against her shoulder blades followed immediately by the stench of male body odor.

“So lovely of you to join us, Mr Logan,” said Irene, looking behind Mary.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Logan stated.

“You’re the second person I’ve disappointed with the contrary today.”

Mary got slowly to her feet, her hand still clenched in a fist around her pistol in her pocket, finger against the trigger.

“Where are the diamonds?” Irene asked.

Logan chuckled, “Neither one of you ladies are going to find out, so- ”

Mary threw her shoulders back and pulled the trigger in her pocket, silently thanking herself for always putting silencers on her guns. The bullet went straight through her jacket, landing in his foot. But Mary stifled his scream with a quick punch to the throat and turned just in time to see Irene kick Viola’s legs out from under her as she lashed out, keeping Viola on the ground. Together, she and Irene dragged a moaning and spluttering Logan over into a sitting position beside Viola against the railing. Irene wasting no time in locating the diamonds in Logan’s rotting jacket he’d adorned as homeless disguise before tossing them to Mary. From the corner of her eye, Mary saw her pocket his gold watch too.

“This was a crime with no victims worth mourning,” grunted Logan.

“Why do you care?” snarled Viola, glaring up at them as they stood over the pair of them. Irene adjusted her sunglasses and folded her arms just as Mary did the same.

“Don’t, really” Irene shrugged. “Jetlag.”

“Day off,” agreed Mary.

“Police! Step aside!”

Logan and Viola’s filthy jaws dropped in perfect synchronisation.

“Didn’t I mention?” Mary cooed. “The police are on their way.”

And from edge of her vision, Mary saw Irene melt into the crowd that had gathered to watch the squad of police heading straight towards them.

***

“What did she mean?” Mrs Watson asked, opening the door to 221b with one hand, whist carrying her daughter in the other.

“What?” Irene followed her through the door.

“When she said you were a dead man walking.”

“You said so much when we met earlier this afternoon,” Irene yawned, plonking herself down into Sherlock's chair and kicking her shoes off. The knot in her stomach tensed.

“I don’t think she was talking about that though,” Mary said. Irene tried not to look at her. “Then, there’s how paranoid you were when you were out the open, how you didn’t really have a problem with me offering to stay here…” she trailed off. “You never struck me as the kind of woman who accepted help with open arms.”

Irene eyed Mary for a long moment. _Would she help? Could she trust her? Irene didn’t have to tell her the whole of it. Besides, she hadn’t killed her yet, she did just the opposite and Irene’s list of allies at this current time only had one man’s name on it._ Irene took a deep breath and leaned forward on the sofa as Mary assumed her seat in Doctor Watson’s chair as her offspring snoozed in her arms.

“Which makes it rather difficult to be the woman that asks for help,” Irene breathed out.

“You need Sherlock’s help?”

Irene nodded.

“When you slapped Viola after she said-” Irene cut Mary off with a look, but she continued. “Because she was using Sherlock to protect herself. You feel guilty because you’re frightened that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

The way she said it, so straight forward as if she was recounting an interesting fact. Irene swallowed, but the lump in her throat was stubborn as the racing of her heart.

“You must have really messed up,” Mary offered with a little more sympathy. Irene scowled at her.

“I’m being hunted, Mrs Watson. Something Sherlock asked me to actively avoid,” muttered Irene.

“Ah, and now he’s the only one who can help you.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Not sure why you’re so worried, he loves a good ‘I told you so’”

Irene dragged her hands down her face.

“Unless,” Mary cautioned. “What you need him to do is something you know he won’t.”

“And therein lays our tale,” Irene sighed, rubbing her eyes. They felt like sand paper against her eyelids.

“Sherlock’s not the same person he was a year ago. The whole Moriarty thing- you’d be surprised.”

“That’s exactly why I know he won’t help me,” Irene’s voice was flatter than she meant it to be.

Mary frowned, “You know, it wasn’t Sherlock who was the slowest to forgive me after I shot him.”

“No?” Irene said, doing her best to sound interested as she rested her head in her chin in her hands.

“John wouldn’t even look at me for months and I was pregnant with this one,” she gestured down at Ella.

Irene raised an eyebrow at her, cocking her head to the side in agreement, “Mmmm. He can hold a grudge, your husband. Especially over Sherlock. Threatened me once.”

“Anyway, it took months, but John came around. But only because Sherlock helped me.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is people who really care about you will forgive you and Sherlock will always help you if you really need him. You’re rather fortunate like that,” Mary smiled at her.

“But I don’t have the time to wait months. Nor am I pregnant with his child.”

“Funny enough, I had eliminated that myself.”

Irene’s head snapped up as Mary whipped around. Sherlock was standing in the doorway. His face a vision of artificial calm that did not reach his hands that were clenched into fists at his side. Neither of them had heard him open the door. As Irene watched, he squeezed his eyes shut as Doctor Watson’s voice floated up the stairs followed instantly by the rest if him.

“Is Mary here?” Doctor Watson asked. “Who are you- OH MY GOD-!”

Sherlock turned on him at once, “No.”

John blinked at him, “What-? How-?”

“I will not explain. I trust you will not mention this to anyone,” Sherlock shot a sideways glance at Mary as he said this. “Please, do this for me.”

“That’s- that’s Irene Adler-” John half spluttered. “She was- and you-”

“Shhhhhhh, darling,” cooed Mary who had gotten up to stand next to Sherlock while Irene watched from Sherlock's cahir, resisting the urge to laugh as she moved herself back to the sofa. 

“Your word, please.”

“Yeah- of course, but-”

“Mary?”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mary shot a wink over her shoulder at Irene and mouthed 'good luck'. Irene smiled at her.

“Come on, John," said Mary. "We need to get Ella home.”

Doctor Watson seemed to be struggling to pick his jaw up off the floor, “yeah-” he cleared his throat. “Yeah, home- er – you alright?” The question seemed to be directed at Irene.

“Fine, thank you Doctor Watson. A pleasure to see you, again,” she called from the sofa as Mrs Watson ushered her husband from the room, handing him a blue baby bag with the arm not holding their daughter. Without so much as a nod in their direction, Sherlock closed the door behind them and Irene Adler was alone with Sherlock Holmes.

“I see from my police scanner app, Mary kept you entertained in my absence,” Sherlock said, pulling off his scarf and gloves and dropping them on the table by the door.

“Heard,” Irene corrected him, yawning. Sherlock paused in the process of shaking off his coat. “You hear police scans, you don’t see them,” she finished as Sherlock threw his coat over the back of his chair.

“If something went wrong and you were caught-” he started, keeping his back to her.

“Is this how you usually thank people for solving for your cases?”

Sherlock rounded on her, “You carelessly risking your safety, claiming it assists me is something I will not thank you for.”

Irene’s stomach back flipped, nausea tingling her every nerve as her heart crashed against her chest. She swallowed.

“But you already know that,” said Sherlock, his tone unattached.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Irene snapped. “I’m not your client.”

“Yet here you are asking for my help,” Sherlock snapped back.

Irene tried not to grit her teeth as she glared up at him, “I’m not your client,” she repeated, continuing to glare at him even when he looked away. Scratching his head, he walked round his own chair and sat down beside her on the sofa. Maintaining space between them, of course, as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He didn’t look at her, just straight ahead.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.” 

Silence hummed in the space between them, as if the quiet grew impatient in the absence of words.

“Give me your word,” Irene said. Sherlock frowned, finally turning his head to look at her.

“For what?”

“Give me your word you will let me finish my explanation. No deductions, assumptions or dull hypocritical lectures on my activities.”

“Hypocritica-?” He spluttered. Irene tilted her chin up, narrowing her eyes at him. Sherlock sucked his breath, throwing his hands up in defeat and gesturing with his hands. “After you,” he said.

“The attacks in Paris last month,” Irene took a deep breath, twisting herself towards him a little. “Moriarty’s syndicate is letting people blame ISIS and ISIS will take it because it makes them look good.”

Sherlock’s laugh was mirthless, “If by ‘look good’ you mean allowing every small minded person in the western world to associate the murder of innocent people with Islam so they hate mindlessly, thus giving ISIS the exact fuel they need to justify the killing of more innocent people so more stupid people can ignore that they’re killing as many people of their own faith as they are those that are not then yes, it makes them look fantastic,” The words were so bitter, so tired. He spoke them like they were dead weights branding the back of his throat even after he’d forced them from his lips.

“Mr Holmes-?” Irene asked, after a moment.

“I’m listening,” he replied, his eyes still forward.

“Violet Hunter was Moriarty’s coordinator in Paris,” Irene swallowed. “Until I tracked her down after the attack.”

Sherlock stiffened, “How did yo-?”

“She’s an ex with OCD. To say she’s a creature of habit is an understatement.”

Sherlock’s mouth was still hanging open, “She’s the equivalent of Jim Moriarty’s party planner! Mycroft and I looked for her for months!”

Irene winked at him.

“MI6 made me a good deal if I brought her in. My cover was airtight.”

“But?” Anticipation jumped off the word like a pulse.

Irene sighed, “I captured her, and Mi6 detained her.”

“But-” Sherlock hissed.

Whatever pride Irene had mustered in the moments beforehand, it deflated when her next words left her lungs, “she owns MI6.”

Sherlock stood up, clawing his fingers down his face, “I could have told you that,” he muttered. Irene couldn’t quite make out his next words, but after a moment she realised he was just repeating that over and over again, “I could have told you that…I could have…”

“Long story short, I am wanted for treason and war crimes in all countries under the United Nations under punishment of death without trial when I am caught.”

Irene flinched as Sherlock flung his microscope off his desk. It thudded and shattered against the floorboards like he’d kicked a small storm to the floor.

“Are you finished?” he hissed, his back to her.

“Yes,”

Sherlock’s deductions seemed to explode from him as he turned to face her, “So you spend the last of your money to bribe your way here hoping I will save you from drowning in the wreck of the ship you sunk to- what? Get back at an ex-girlfriend? What were you thinking? Answer: you weren’t!”

Scowling, Irene was on her feet facing him before her mind caught up with the action, “I was thinking-”

“What?”

“Perhaps I was inspired by your posthumous activities,” she snapped. Sherlock’s whole being seemed to falter for a fraction of a moment before he took a step towards her.

“No,” he whispered, gesturing a finger vaguely around them as if he were drawing the world.  “This was not me. This was you. I am not responsible for your choices.”

Irene rolled her eyes, “People pay you for this?”

“What is this?” He asked. “Is this you letting me know I am responsible for the consequences of your choices? You could have just text me goodbye like the last time,” he finished with a mutter.

His hand caught hers inches from his face, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in a grip loose enough for her to pull away if she wanted. Irene’s sharp breaths passed through her nose, filling up her ears until she almost couldn’t hear her heart beating like bullets in her chest.

“You’re tired.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not,” he said with no trace of a lie. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Irene glanced down at his fingers as they unfurled from her wrist and she folded her arms. Her skin burned in the wake of his touch. A heat that seem to exude from where their hands had touched into the space between them.

“Help me disappear,” she asked it like an instruction. “No one found me after Karachi. Not until I wanted them to.” Staring at the floor, she added, “All my other contacts want to kill me.”

Sherlock folded his arms.

“Are you expecting me to beg?” Deja vu pulled the knots in her stomach tighter as she raised her head to watch his face, her wide eyes reflected in his. But after a moment that might have been an age, Sherlock Holmes stepped toward her.

“Miss Adler, you never have to beg me for anything,” his voice was a low rumble rushing through her veins, dissolving the knots in her stomach and chasing away the tightness in her chest. But he spoke the words like facts. The sky is blue, you’re tired and _you never have to beg me._

 “Besides, I’ll need something to do now that you and Mary solved my most interesting case I’ve had for months,” he sighed. A crooked smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. Irene licked her own lips, but it didn’t dampen the urge to return it. She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. How his folded arms were inches from her own. How he couldn’t take any more steps towards her, even if he had to. “Disappearing right under Moriarty’s nose,” Sherlock made a tutting sound. “You know what that means. You can’t come bac-”

She cut across him, “I know.”

“Not for a long ti-”

“I’m sorry,” and she meant it. Sherlock pressed his lips together, his brow furrowed. But after a moment he shook his head. Irene suddenly felt cold. The exhaustion of the conversation, the day, the year crashing into her bones all at once. Sherlock cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets as he shifted his weight. Suddenly, he seemed very interested in his shoes.

“You’ll need to lay low here for a few days,” he mumbled, red shooting through his cheeks. He cleared his throat, “until I sort out your documentation.”

Chuckling, Irene grinned, leaning forward, rocking back on the tips of her toes to look up into his face, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you with a case or two while I’m here. Looks like you could use the help.” Sherlock looked genuinely offended for a moment before-

“You’re a terrible criminal, Miss Adler,” he teased with a smile that Irene wasted no time pressing against her own. A brief brush of their lips on tiptoe only so she could whisper across them-

“And you’re a horrible detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback and prompts are always appreciated at my tumblr: letzplaymurder.tumblr.com. This was a prompt given to me by one of my absolute favorite artists on tumblr! Check out this fanart she did of my fic The Price Of Retrouvailles WHICH I'M STILL SQUEEELING ABOUT COS ITS SO AMAZING: http://caged-nightingale.tumblr.com/post/124231806409/just-finished-reading-the-last-chapter-of-the. Which is henceforth why I couldn't say no to writing this prompt. Consider this payment for your beautiful art, my dear. I hope I didn't disappoint you.
> 
> Anyways, this was a little thing I thought I'd try and explore the idea of Sherlock and Irene rubbing off on each other as well as just lettin ma fave ladies be rad mad awesome. Hope you all enjoyed xxoxo  
> Love, Merry


	18. The Secrets Of Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s lunchtime and Irene Adler is demanding Sherlock help her hide from his worst enemies. Will she find out why he’s hiding too?
> 
> A kidlock short that is a sort of sequel to the short in Chapter 5 of this work, while also being a belated birthday fic for Sherlock (who turned 162 last week). You don't have to read A Different Kind Of Buzzing to enjoy this but it's more fun if you do. Enjoy and leave a comment if you can xo

Sherlock Holmes hated how grownups used the phrase “got the wind knocked out of you” because lungs aren’t full of the _wind_ , but as Irene Adler’s shoulder collided with his torso, throwing them both away from each other, Sherlock had to admit the phrase (maybe) had _some_ merit.

“HEY-!” he gasped, ears ringing, clutching his middle and stumbling forward to regain his balance. He’d just been hovering at the edge of the main playground, searching for a bin to toss his uneaten lunch in. “Why-? Watch where you-!” he started.

“Hide me,” she hissed, almost tripping over her own feet until they were face to face.

“Er-?” Sherlock mumbled, blinking at the sudden proximity of her freckles. “From who?”

Irene groaned, “Jim and Sebastian, stupid! They’re after me!”

As if in answer to her complaining an all too familiar Irish drawl floated on the wind towards them, assaulting Sherlock’s relative peace of mind. “Ireeeeeeeeeene,” it cooed. “Come on, I just wanna be friends…”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he really heard Jim snigger or if he just imagined it. Either way the sneer made Sherlock’s stomach feel as if gravity had decided his insides didn’t belong to him anymore. Irene’s pale eyes widened in front of his own.

“Come on,” she whispered. “They keep finding me.”

“Ireeeeeeeeeeene,” that was definitely Sebastian. Sherlock hated the way he talked. Like every word he wrapped his lips around was a weapon he couldn’t wait to hurt you with.

“Fine,” he swallowed, glaring at her. “But don’t call me stupid, okay?”

Irene barely nodded before Sherlock grabbed hold of her hand and lead her back to where he’d been sitting before his journey to the bin had been so rudely altered.

The science lab sat on peers about 4 feet off the ground 100 feet behind the main playground, partially hidden by the back trees. It was one of those portable classrooms they just plonked into the school with a crane because the government couldn’t afford to build a real classroom. This one was invaded with dead leaves and overrun with forget. The school banned all students from it a few months ago after an unfindable and reoccurring gas leak left too many kids with no eyebrows.

“Stop,” he held up an arm to halt Irene’s running as he crouched down.

“Where are you goi-?” she started.

“Ireeeeene!”

“Come on!” Sherlock hissed, beckoning to her so hard his hand hurt. She crouched by him in a blink and together they crawled under the building, sticks and leaves crunching under their knees.

“Sherlock-?”

“Just follow me- oh, and hold your breath,” he said in a strangled whisper, clamping his lips tightly around the air in his mouth just as the freckles on her cheeks puffed out at the instruction. Sherlock fought the urge to laugh, not wanting his own air to escape.

They crawled a little further before Sherlock shrugged his backpack off and rolled over onto his back. Ignoring Irene’s furrowed brow, he kicked at the floor above their heads until a jagged square of it dislodged with a hollow thud. Sherlock stood up, poking his head up through the hole before leaning down to toss his bag through and clambering up after it.

Once inside he flicked the button for the exhaust fan, turned off the leaking bunsen burner on the closest of the six dust drowned benches to his left and waited a moment. _1, 2, 3…_ Finally, when he got to 10, he freed the breath he’d been holding and turned the exhaust fan off. Wasting no time, he crouched down beside the hole in the floor, grabbed Irene’s arm and pulled her up beside him. Her cheeks now a dangerous looking plum colour.

“Oh, you can breathe now,” he told her. Irene let out a gasp, gulping air down as he kicked the dislodged piece of flooring back over the hole so it blended in with the rest of the stained green linoleum. They sat there together for a second, their panting punctuated only by Irene’s giggling, infecting Sherlock’s own breathing until he was laughing alongside her. Feeling her shoulder brush against his with every giggle that jolted her body.  Suddenly, Sherlock was glad of the giggles to blame for the heat dashing to his cheeks.

The only light in the room snuck in through the two tall windows that weren’t bordered up like their half a dozen colleagues. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling worked, of course. Sherlock had fixed them like everything else. But the point of a secret base is that no one knows you’re there.

Well, almost no one.

“What is this place?” Irene asked, getting to her feet and brushing torn leaves from her pants. “Is it your secret hideout?”

Sherlock bit his lip, watching her dark tangles of hair bounce as her head gazed around.

“Is this where you sit all the time?”

Sherlock nodded, “Except when the bees need me.”

“Your secret bees?” and she smiled as if the words tasted delicious.

“My secret bees,” Sherlock echoed, sitting cross legged and taking out his lunchbox. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

Irene folded her arms, “they wouldn’t be called _secret_ bees if I told anyone=”

“Fine. Why are you so scared of Jim and Sebastian, then?” asked Sherlock, removing the lid to his lunchbox and frowning at the contents.

“Why are _you_?” she retorted, taking a step back towards him.

“I’m not scared,” Sherlock shot back. Irene threw her head back in a laugh that was too dramatic to be real.

“Yes you are,” she giggled, plopping herself down cross legged in front of him. If she had a lunchbox, Sherlock thought, they’d be sitting the same. Like she was mirroring him on purpose. He frowned again, resisting the urge to shuffle back from her.

“Am not-” he hissed.

“Why were you already hiding, then?”

Sherlock glanced down at his lunch box. At the edge of his vision he saw Irene do the same. His fingers scrambled to shove it back into his bag but Irene yanked it from his hands, “DON’T!” he cried. But it was too late.

“Is this birthday cake?” Irene picked up the cupcake Sherlock’s mother had packed. It was iced with red and white stripes and a more squashed version of a skull and cross bones.

“No,” Sherlock lied. Irene’s eyes flashed like two gold coins. They were so big it was hard not to stare at them. He wished he could swallow his racing pulse.

“It is!” she gasped. “It’s your birthday! That’s why you’re hiding!”

“Shhhhhhhh”

“You’re hiding cos boys do that weird thing where they punch each other on their birthdays!”

“Be quiet,” he pleaded, grinding his teeth as he failed to grab his cake back from her. She always dangled it at the perfect distance so he couldn’t reach it without… almost… touching her.

“Oi, Jim! You hear that?”

The pair of them froze, Sherlock groaning at the same time Irene’s triumphant grin crumpled. He leaned back away from her. Pressing a finger to his lips and keeping low, Sherlock crawled over to the far wall, beckoning Irene to follow. She dropped the cake and his lunch box and ducked down beside him.

A sliver of fresh air tickled his nostrils (reminding him that ‘stale’ was the kindest word he could use to describe the air in his secret lab) as Sherlock peeled away the rotting poster of the periodic table and peered through the peephole it hid.

“This building’s got poison gas, Seb!” Jim Moriarty snarled at his minion. “You’re hearing things, come on!”

“I want to kick her teeth in,” Sebastian Moran mumbled, kicking a stone just out of sight of the peephole as if to demonstrate.

‘What did you do?’ Sherlock mouthed at Irene. The thin line of light cast from the tiny hole glinted off her grinning teeth and Sherlock realised their noses were almost touching, crouching either side of the light.

“Found out a secret,” Irene whispered. “It’s my hobby.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock whispered back.

“Seb, looks like someone’s been crawling around under here!”

Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat as Sebastian Moran left the peephole’s line of sight. _No, no, no-_

“Is there another way out?” Irene panted, her eyes unblinking and level with his.

Sherlock nodded, “Storage room up the back has a window low enough to jump from-”

Irene was already scuttling, head low down the length of the lab.

“Wait!” Sherlock hissed, shoving his food back in his bag and grabbing the box of water balloons he kept in the cupboard beneath a grubby bench in case of enemies. By the time he got to the storage room, Irene was already halfway out the window.

“Irene!” She dropped herself onto the ground and looked up at him. “Catch these!” he passed the box down to her before lowering himself out the window and landing beside her.

“What are they?” She nodded down at the box in her hands.

It was Sherlock’s turn to grin, “Hobbies! Come on!”

“I can hear youuuuu,” jeered Jim Moriarty. Irene and Sherlock ducked, keeping their backs pressed against the outside wall of the abandoned lab, sliding around it’s perimeter until they could just see the backs of Jim and Sebastian’s heads. She plucked a water balloon from the cardboard box and shifted it between her hands.

“These don’t feel like they have much water in them,” she whispered.

“They don’t need to. Ready?”

Irene nodded.

“Ladies first,” Sherlock whispered, his heart pounding right down to his toes. Irene’s grin mirrored his own.

“When I say run, run,” she whispered. Sherlock nodded and for a second they just stood there. Poised for the skirmish. Irene’s red water balloon above her head while Sherlock’s green one sloshed in his fingers against his chest. Sebastian ad Jim’s head began to turn-

“NOW!”

The balloons shattered 2 feet from Jim and Sebastian’s Oxford shoes, unleashing their obscene stench so Irene and Sherlock gagged on their own laughs as she grabbed his wrist and tugged him away. The pair of them laughing as they ran from Sebastian and Jim’s taunts that were almost as foul as the smell oozing from Sherlock’s stink bombs.

“What _was_ that smell?!” Irene panted when they finally stopped running, having returned to the main playground. Other kids swirled around them in a dizzying spectacle of white noise. But Sherlock just wanted to look at her, grinning at him so he grinned back.

“Experiments!” gasped Sherlock, catching his breath. “Diluted juices from _surströmming, it’s the smelliest fish in the world!” he puffed._

_“That’s brilliant!” Irene laughed, making Sherlock stand a little taller because it was a sound she released into the world because of something he did._

_Blinking, he cleared his throat._

_“You didn’t have to help me, you know.” Suddenly, he was mumbling, staring at the brown leaves stuck to his shoes._

_“I know,” she licked her lips. “Happy birthday!” Scrunching up her cheeks, she aimed a punch at his arm. But it wasn’t the kind that hurt him, not like the others. He looked up at her, pressing his own lips together to battle against another grin._

_“They’ll be angrier at you now, though. Jim and Sebastian,” he kept his voice low._

_“Well then,” she said in the kind of voice that was so confident it could make you believe the moon was made of peanut butter. “It’s lucky I’ve got a good secret hiding place, isn’t it?”_

_And they were grinning at each other so it felt like this part of time was just made of her teeth and her freckles and her big pale eyes, all composed into a single moment of excitement._

_Suddenly, her freckles blazed pink._

_“See you around, Sherlock Holmes,” Now, she was mumbling, the cool air meeting his hand as she let go of it. Sherlock shook his head, he hadn’t realised she had still been holding it from when they were running. Perhaps…maybe he had been the one holding on?_

_And the air seemed full of secrets. Like the small space between them was a secret neither of them wanted to tell._

_“See you, Irene Adler,” He said and as she turned to walk away and Sherlock felt his forehead crease at how breathless her name sounded off his lips, and how hard his heart was crashing in his ears even though they had stopped running minutes ago._

_As if… she’d knocked the wind out of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading *kisses your forehead* Leave a comment if you can or send me a message/prompt on tumbr (letzplaymurder.tumblr.com) 
> 
> This was also for my friend Naomi (iadler in tumblr) who begged me on twitter to write more kidlock and always writes amazing reviews of my fics that leave me in tears.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Love, Merry xox


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